


My Dear

by vulcansmirk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2668244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcansmirk/pseuds/vulcansmirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Soldier stares down at the floor, breathing hard through his nose.</p><p>“And you still wanna fix me,” he says.</p><p>Steve shakes his head. “There’s nothing to fix, Buck. I just want to bring you home.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who the hell is Bucky?

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I wanted a fic where Bucky ends up in Avengers Tower, bros it out with the team, and finally gives in to his lifelong crush on Steven Grant Rogers. 100% angst and schmoop. I have no excuses.
> 
> Rating is mostly for things to come (if ya know what I mean [wink]) (no pun intended???). The next part is shaping up to be considerably longer than this one, so, y'know... brace yourselves.

_“What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.”_ —Thomas Paine, “The Crisis”

 

The first real hint of memory occurs during a sloppy fistfight on a plummeting aircraft. It isn't until the second one finds its mark that the Asset begins to crumble.

(That fight was so damn sloppy—no weapons, by the end, just arms and legs and faces and contact, two men beating each other bloody... He wonders whether he'd already started to fall apart by then; missions are clean, but this? This was brutal. This was a heart crushed to pulp inside a cold metal hand.)

The second memory hits moments after the first. The Asset hangs from the vessel by one hand, nothing beneath him but air and cold water. The scene corrodes as he watches—for an instant it's not water beneath him, but _snow and rock, and he's not even looking down, he won't look, because his heart beats so hard he fears it might burst_ (he fears) _and because above him is the face of a man woven from light, a man whose smile shoots through him like the last days of summer, a man who looks now like he's about to lose everything and_ shouldn't, please don't, I'm okay; _a man who has never let him down and certainly won't now, not when “down” stretches so far that it doesn't seem to end, and see, look, there he is,_ **grab my hand** —

The Asset snaps back. His eyes sting. He watches his mission sink out of sight, and on the tail of his second vision, the first hangs by one hand. It comes back to him, and he knows it. He knows.

**I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.**

There's a ghost in his throat, the dying wisps of vibration. The feeling seems to stretch further back than the Asset ever knew possible, more than days, more than weeks, yet somehow he still knows what it must be: memory.

The Asset can't differentiate between shock and purpose, then. But it hardly matters; the result is the same.

He lets go. He falls.

 

* * *

 

The Mission lies in the mud, spitting up water. Eyes closed. Chest rising and falling steadily.

The Winter Soldier stares down at a face both familiar and alien. His ribs tie themselves in knots.

**The thing is... you don’t have to.**

Cradling his broken arm to his chest, the Soldier turns away.

 

* * *

 

The face looks like his.

The man in the pictures is handsome and proud. He stands tall, looks right into the camera. His uniform fits him like a glove.

The man in the videos radiates a quiet happiness, whispering in the other man’s ear, making them both smile wide and bright. (They’re both beautiful.)

The man in the sketches appears in fragments—a jaw; a shoulder; two hands. His smile is soft and genuine, a glow like candlelight.

The face looks like his. It isn’t. He feels a kinship with the fragments, though, and in some of the clips, the man’s gun fits into his hand like an extension of his arm, the weapon before the Weapon. In the pictures, the Soldier thinks he detects a tightness in the jaw, regret, bitterness, some kind of horror. The Soldier knows all about horror. He understands, in a distant way he can’t place, that the uniform they wrapped him in and the gun they put in his hand were this man’s cryochamber, this man’s chair.

It’s looking at that face—still so young and open, framed by dark, close-shorn hair—and thinking in the same moment about the chair that does it. The Soldier feels it burbling, rising, surging up his throat, and his hands are shaking (both of them), and he backs out of the well-lit exhibit hall as quickly and quietly as he can.

As he weaves through the crowd, the Soldier’s lungs seem to take on water. When his feet start to stretch away from his head, he dives into a service corridor. A red exit sign flickers dully at the end, but like looking through a fisheye lens, it’s moving further away, and the walls are curving, closing in; the red light pooled on the ceiling starts to trickle down through the air, staining the corridor. The Soldier doesn’t realize how close he is to the door until he rams into it, the broken bone in his flesh arm screaming. His vision is starting to blur, but not into a meaningless haze: the pillowy shadows around him dissolve into gleaming metal and sickly green light, and he remembers _remembering._

_He’s screaming. His mouth is stopped up with rubber, but he can still scream. It’s the chair: this is the way you scream in the chair. He’s strapped into it, a huge metal cuff clapped around the Weapon. He strains out of instinct, but he knows how this goes. There’s no getting out._

_Time moves backward, and the Soldier moves forward._

_The bindings recede; his breathing slows. There’s a man standing in front of him._

**Wipe him, and start over.**

_He can’t breathe. He’s stopped breathing._

**But I knew him.**

_A blow. Flesh-on-flesh, but in the wrong order—flesh moving away from flesh; pain sucked out of the Soldier’s jaw like poison from a wound._

“Oh, holy shit, is that—Hey, man. Come—come on, man, calm down. Jesus, where’s my—Cap? Hawkeye to Cap, code red, we have a code red, northwest service entrance. Get the fuck over—”

An unfamiliar man, dressed all in black, steps into the Soldier’s eyeline. The Soldier lashes out. Pain shoots through his right arm. Somebody cries out. He stumbles away.

**Your work has been a gift to mankind.**

_A face swims before him. Blond hair, chiseled jaw. Shock and concern and confusion and some kind of_ hope shine out of blue eyes.

The Soldier’s gripping thickly-muscled arms now—but that’s... wrong. Did this happen?

**The man on the bridge... Who was he?**

“Bucky? Bucky! Just breathe. You’re okay, just—”

The face is _still there. And now it’s disgruntled, and now it’s bruised and battered, and now it’s hard and determined. Now it’s connected to a much smaller body. Now it’s smiling, a sweet little upturn of the lips. Now it’s twisted up in grief, in guilt, and it’s falling away._

**Bucky! NO!**

_No... no, wait—it’s the Soldier who’s falling, but he’s also_ standing still. Or kneeling—he’s on his knees, fingers tangled in fabric now, forearms pressed against warm muscle (but it’s only warm to half of him, and that half _hurts,_ Christ, it hurts). That face... Mouth moving. Saying something? The Soldier can’t hear him. This man isn't here. Isn’t here. _Isn’t here._

_The Soldier lies at the bottom of a ravine. Cold. White. Red—oh, god, red, bright and gleaming, a trail of it—he’s moving—hands at his shoulders, pulling—_

**You are to be the new fist of HYDRA.**

_He’s in the chair again. He’s there for the first time. They’re cutting him—are they—they’re—Jesus Christ, they’re taking his arm—he’s AWAKE Jesus fucking Christ—you can’t—please, you can’t—Steve? Are you—help m—don’t, fuck, please don’t—Steve, where is—don’t let—don’t do this, please—oh, god, n—Stevie—no no no no—stop it—stop it_ _stop it stop_ stop ST—

His throat burns. Someone is yelling. But his _arm,_ _they’re taking—_ His arm hurts (the wrong one). He’s _not here._

_Metal gleaming beneath fluorescent lights. The Weapon._

**He’s unstable, erratic—**

_Metal striking flesh, crushing bone, he feels it crack—_

**Sergeant Barnes!**

_That face again, brow knit, blue_ eyes so goddamn bright—resolving into something solid, even as the ghosts fill it up like a balloon, raising it out of the dark.

“Come on, Bucky, come back to—”

**—me. It’s Steve.**

**...Steve?**

_And there is no Weapon, and there are no small frightening men. Just one big one, but he’s not frightening._ I know you. _Sickly green light; empty room, stained brick walls; the distant sounds of explosions. Leather straps to restrain his arms—both flesh—but the other man_ (I know I know I know) _is loosening them, opening them, letting him out._

 _He flattens his palms_ on the man’s chest. _He’s inside a factory;_ he’s outside, on the pavement. _He’s staring up into_ overwhelmingly soft blue eyes. _(Do I know you?)_

“I thought you were smaller,” the Soldier remembers. The man— **the man on the bridge... who** _—_ looks startled.

The Soldier passes out.

 

* * *

 

**Fire now. Do it! Do it now!**

Eyes open.

Horizontal. Bindings? ...No. Bed? Likely. Air; light; windows. Warm.

Something rustles to the Soldier’s right. He doesn’t look, just bolts upright, tense, ready to run.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Hands on his shoulders. (He feels the warmth of one, the weight of the other.) A face, from the left—wide blue eyes. The Mission.

“Take it easy, Buck.” His voice ricochets inside the Soldier’s chest. “You shouldn’t move that arm.”

The Soldier wrenches his left shoulder away, and the Mission winces. Belatedly, pain stabs at the Soldier’s flesh arm, and he realizes this is what the Mission meant.

“Steve,” says another voice, from the right. A man steps into the Soldier’s eyeline. He looks worn. “Steve, I think you should give him some space.”

The Soldier is breathing hard, suddenly. His head feels light.

**Steve...?**

The face in front of him is concerned. It flickers like a bad light, now concerned—now _hard-set—beaming—surprised—laughing—proud—grieving._

This face _painted huge on the wall, a flag draped around it, looking just slightly too heroic, halfway out of phase with_ the real thing.

**This isn’t about me.**

**Right. ‘Cause you got nothin’ to prove.**

That face, concerned again, and staying there. Blue eyes glance over at the other man in the room, entirely unsure (and the sunlight takes advantage of the angle, spills into those eyes, transmutes them into precious gems). He starts pulling away.

The Soldier’s metal hand whips out almost without his permission, winds itself hard into the front of the Mission’s T-shirt. He yanks the Mission closer with just a little too much force. The other man in the room shouts. Distant footsteps answer; a door bangs open.

But the man in the Soldier’s grip is silent. His eyes are wide and painfully trusting. The Soldier stares into them, inches away. He’s filled with... he doesn’t know, something sharp. Red. Burning.

His flesh arm rises up. The Mission’s eyes flick over it, but he doesn’t move away.

Bucky’s right hand thwaps the back of Steve’s head. It sends a jolt of pain through the bone.

“You idiot,” he hisses. His hand lands, limp, on the nape of Steve’s neck, and stays there, pins him there, weakly (but he won’t move away). Their foreheads meet.

“Idiot,” Bucky says again. “ _Fucking_ idiot _._ You told ‘em to fire. You were _still on the damn ship,_ and you told ‘em to fire.” Out of nowhere, Bucky remembers his trip to the Smithsonian. **...honor, bravery, and sacrifice.** “And what’s this I hear about you crashing a goddamn _plane?_ Jesus.” He chuckles a little around this last, but there’s no mirth in it. There’s that sharp edge, cutting into his throat. “You really can’t take care of yourself without me, can you?”

Steve laughs, but it’s more of a sob. His eyes are filling up, Bucky can see; they fall closed, and his hand comes up to cover the metal one on his chest.

That does it. Bucky feels himself start to slip away, a slow slide back into the dark. Every point of contact between him and Steve charges up with electricity, nerve endings firing a thousand times more than they should.

The Soldier is breathing hard again.

“Steve,” someone murmurs. The Soldier hardly hears.

“Yeah... yeah.”

And then the Mission is gone, the space he’d occupied cold. His scent still hangs in the air. The Soldier fills his lungs all the way up.

“Just give him time,” says the worn man. The Soldier can’t see; he’s staring down at his mismatched hands.

“Yeah,” the Mission replies, a beat late. “Yeah, Bruce, thanks.”

“Hey, Cap,” comes the voice from the door, and the Soldier jumps. He’d forgotten someone else walked in. _(Forgotten._ The Soldier _forgot.)_ “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure thing, Sam.” The Mission crosses the room, glances back at the Soldier, ducks through the door. New guy doesn’t follow immediately, but stands in the doorway and gives the Soldier a long look. Not hostile, but guarded. The Soldier looks back down at his hands. He hears the door fall shut.

Silence stretches. Then rustling from the right again. The Soldier doesn’t flinch this time.

The bed dips—the weight of a man leaning against it. Looking up, the Soldier doesn’t quite meet the worn man’s eye. There’s something folded in his hands.

“I’m Dr. Banner,” he says. “I’m friends with Steve. You can call me Bruce.”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

The worn man—Bruce—fumbles with the folded thing. “I, uh,” he stutters. “Are you cold? I mean, I wouldn’t ask, but maybe you don’t trust me enough to say, or you’re not wired into those feelings, or something. But, well, you have goosebumps, so, uh.” The dark blue cloth in his hands unfolds. “Steve left this for you, if you want it. Sweatshirt. If you’re cold.”

His left arm feels stiff. The metal whines when the Soldier reaches out, takes the sweatshirt. Doesn’t put it on.

“Alright,” says Bruce. It comes out like a question. “Oh, uh, like Steve said, be careful of your right arm. Looks like it suffered a nasty break. It’s healing fast, though—not much point in a cast. We thought about putting it in a sling, but Steve thought, after everything you’ve—well, we didn’t want to freak you out.”

The Soldier looks down at his lap. The sweatshirt is pooled there now. It covers his hands.

“You’re in New York,” Bruce goes on, eyes moving nervously around the room. “You were caught on the security cameras at the Smithsonian. Steve and Clint—our friend, Clint—they found you outside. When you passed out, Steve called me, and I called Tony—uh, Tony Stark, you’ll meet him sometime soon. He sent a helicopter and flew you here. It’s, uh, it’s his building.”

The Soldier’s hands are twisted up in the sweatshirt now. It’s soft. His eyes water with it.

Bruce sits on the edge of the bed. He does it gingerly, careful to leave plenty of space between their bodies.

“Listen,” he says, quietly assessing. “I know it’s, I mean, I don’t know you. It’s none of my business. But you... Steve tells me you’re a little confused about who you are. And I just, you know, I understand what that’s like. To have more than one guy up here.” He raps his skull with his knuckles. “You’re confused now, and I get that, and that’s okay. No one’s expecting you to be certain of anything right now. Not even Steve. We just want you to get some rest. Everything else... We’ll figure it out.”

Bruce’s eyes are solid, unblinking. The Soldier looks into them, without meaning to, and then he can’t look away.

Bruce smiles at him, very small. After a moment, the Soldier picks up the sweatshirt and pulls it over his head, navigating carefully around his half-healed arm. His head pops out, and Bruce’s smile has broadened.

The sweatshirt smells familiar. It fills up a cavity way down deep. He closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

It’s getting dark. The blinds are closed over the room’s huge windows; warm city light crawls in through the cracks, and shadows eddy in the negative space. The light doesn’t quite reach the bed.

Bruce is gone. The Soldier is alone, and he’s not sure when that happened. The door is open a crack, another soft bar of orange light streaming in, along with voices. Three of them; the Soldier recognizes Bruce’s voice, and picks up another, this one unfamiliar. The last voice...

 _Steve._ The name falls into the Soldier’s head and washes him with a warmth like passing over a sidewalk grate—totally unexpected, strangely disarming.

The Soldier listens.

“...be okay, I think. He didn’t lash out. That’s a good sign. But it’s gonna be a while before he’s really stable, and even when he is, he won’t be the guy he was when you knew him. You should be prepared for that.”

“Yeah, I—yeah. I mean, I didn’t—but, yeah, of course. I’m just... I’m just glad he’s here at all.”

“So are we, Steve. We’ll help you however we can. Oh, which reminds me—his prosthetic sounded like it was in pretty bad shape when I was in with him. Tony, I don’t suppose you could...?”

“Sure, I can take a look. Put my tinkering to good use. And of course I absolutely won’t take advantage of the situation to grill him for embarrassing stories about the young Captain America.”

A low chuckle. “I’m not sure how much he could tell you. In DC, he started to recognize me, but I don’t think he quite remembers anything yet. Bucky definitely knows some things, though.”

“...Huh. Captain, I must say, I have never seen you looking quite so human.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Closest I’ll ever get to one.”

“Wow. I’m touched. Really, though, it’s all down to Bucky. Ever since we were kids—y’know, I was always getting myself into these awful scrapes, refusing to back down from guys much bigger than me. Bucky and I met because one day he stepped in, and then he never stepped out again. I started so many fights—I was a real piece of work. Bucky always finished ‘em, and cleaned me up after.”

**Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?**

**Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight... I’m following him.**

“Sounds like he was a really good guy, Steve.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Bucky’s the best. Stark, I think you’ll like him.”

“Oh? Are you sure? I hardly like anyone. Only Pepper. And Rhodey, sometimes. Well, and Bruce here. He’s got the science thing going for him. And I guess Agent Romanoff’s always tickled me. Though not literally—more’s the pity.”

“Careful there, Tony. You never know when she might be listening.”

“It’s okay, there’s garlic in the kitchen.”

“Wha... You know what, never mind. I do think you’ll like Bucky, though. When you and I first met, you reminded me of him. He was a great guy, a good soldier, real brave, but he was always looking for that way out. It was worth it to fight, for him, but not to die. There wasn’t much to him worth dying for. And then his number came up—Bucky didn’t volunteer for the war, you know. He was drafted. And when I wanted to enlist, he kept on telling me to stay in New York, find some other way to help. Work in the factories, something. It used to really irritate me, that he had so little faith in my ability to fight—but I’ve had a long time to think on it, and I know now that he didn’t say those things because he didn’t believe in me. He was the first one who did, really. He saw the good in me long before anyone else saw me at all. But I would’ve died for what I believed, and he knew that. He didn’t think the war was worth my life.”

Silence. Fabric whispers.

“Bucky’s just... I get so caught up in these huge ideas. Been this way my whole life. I pull out so wide and think so big, and I lose myself in it. But Bucky kept my feet on the ground. He kept me sane. And if he hadn’t been there... Well, when he wasn’t there, I flew a plane into the ice. So if I look more human, as you put it, that’s why. Bucky brings that out in me. He pulls me back.”

_Come back to me._

“...Uh. Listen, Cap. I know I remind you of this guy and all, but I feel like I should warn you that I don’t really think of you that way. I mean I’ve been known to roll that way, sure—Rhodey and I have an understanding—but I think of you more as a loveable grandpa figure, and of course I’m already in a committed relationship, so—”

“Tony!”

There’s a rustle and a thump.

“Hey! That is _not_ why they’re called throw pillows!”

“You’re such a jerk,” Steve laughs.

“Oh, I’m sorry, whose giant comfy ultra-modern tower are you staying in right now? And who’s letting your nonagenarian ex-assassin buddy convalesce in said giant comfy ultra-modern tower? I should be charging rent.”

“What a hero.”

“Oh my—I thought Captain America was supposed to be _polite._ Where’s all this sass coming from?”

“I guess you’re rubbing off.”

“Well, when you put it like that, it’s about damn time. Think I’d better make myself scarce, though, or I’m gonna need some ointment for all these burns.”

“That’s my cue, as well. Goodnight, Steve. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will. Thanks so much, both of you—for everything.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Just fulfilling my civic responsibilities. Hey, I wonder if this gets me out of jury duty.”

The sounds of retreating footsteps and closing doors recede as the Soldier slips out onto the terrace. He’s breathing quickly.

He doesn’t expect anyone to be outside. When he passes out into the cool air, though, there’s a blond man leaning casually against the railing, gaze cast out over the city skyline. A black bow and a quiver of arrows sit tucked into the shadow of the wall.

The Soldier freezes in the doorway. The man—the archer—doesn’t look up.

A few moments’ quiet, and the archer speaks. “In or out, dude.”

Silence stretches. Finally, the archer turns his head, keen eyes falling on the Soldier. He raises an eyebrow.

The Soldier shuffles forward, watching the archer warily, leaving the door open behind him. His fingers wrap tight around the concrete railing.

The archer’s eyes return to the city, and after a full minute of being silently ignored, the Soldier relaxes. He looks out into the city, and the breath hisses from his lungs. Lights from a hundred thousand windows speckle the shadows, rising up off the ground, painting colors on the air. White lights streak down avenues far below. Distant traffic lights turn from red to green.

“If you’re gonna try and hit me again, just give me a heads-up, yeah?” says the archer, breaking the Soldier’s reverie. He starts.

“Though I think you hurt yourself more than you did me,” the archer continues. “You do realize your arm’s _broken,_ right? Probably best not to go punching people with it. Uh, but please don’t punch me with the metal one, either. Y’know what, just don’t punch me, period. Or kick! Or—aw, fuck it, you’re not even listening.”

The Soldier says nothing. He watches the lit specks of cars passing by down below.

“Well, I ain’t here to be your friend, anyway. I am officially on bodyguard duty. Gotta protect you from all those meanie-pants HYDRA agents, though supposedly Fury’s got ‘em under control. Still, better safe than, y’know, dead.”

The Soldier blinks. He turns and stares at the archer, who looks back at him.

His voice comes out rasping with disuse. “I don’t need protecting.”

There’s a light knock on the inner door, and a quiet, “Bucky?” The hinges squeak.

The archer nods toward the sound. “He thinks so.”

Footsteps. Then, “Oh,” says the Mission, standing in the doorway. “Hey, Clint.”

“Cap.”

“You heard from Natasha?”

“Yeah. She’s on her way. Be here in the morning.”

“Thanks. That’s... thanks.”

The Mission’s smile is tentative when he turns to the Soldier. Tentative, but not afraid. (Somehow, the Soldier can read this in his face. He’s good at reading faces, but this... feels different.)

“You can stay out here with Clint, if you want,” the Mission is saying. “Kinda cold, though.”

He watches the Soldier, waits. In the silence, the Soldier realizes he’s shivering.

Wordlessly, the Soldier heads inside. The Mission exchanges a few inaudible words with the archer, then follows.

The door falls shut, and the room plunges into an uneasy silence. The Soldier climbs onto the bed, backs up until his spine is pressed to the headboard, curls in on himself. His metal arm locks around his knees. The flesh one—the broken one—lies limp at his side, throbbing dully. The Mission sits in a chair in the corner, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He’s looking at the Soldier and wringing his hands.

When he catches sight of the Soldier’s flesh arm, the Mission winces. Raises his eyes to the Soldier’s face.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” he murmurs. “For breaking your arm. I didn’t—I never wanted to hurt you.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t break eye contact. His gaze is bright and far too open.

The Soldier feels his brow knit together. There’s so much sincerity in this man’s face, so much emotion bleeding out of his skin, but the Soldier just feels cold.

“I shot you,” he points out.

The Mission doesn’t even pause. Just shrugs, looks away. “You weren’t yourself.”

Something swells in the Soldier’s chest. His eyes prickle. A voice in his head snaps, _Dammit, Steve! You gotta be careful._

His vision blurs. He blinks, and it clears.

“You were worth it.”

The Mission looks up. “What?”

The Soldier isn’t quite sure what he means. His mouth seems to know better than his brain.

A little louder: “He died for you, right?” He mimics the Mission’s earlier shrug. “You must’ve been worth it.”

When the Soldier looks back, the Mission is staring at him. His mouth has fallen open, eyes wide and horrified. He’s perched even more precariously on the chair, and his fingers knead the cushion beneath him, knuckles white.

“What is it?”

The Mission’s mouth snaps shut. Opens again. “It’s nothing.”

“No. What is it?”

A noisy breath, and the Mission’s spine straightens. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” he starts, “but I’d like to—can I—?” He gestures vaguely at the long shadows separating them.

The Soldier still doesn’t know what the Mission’s trying to say, but he’s got an idea. His whole body goes stiff.

The Mission notices. “It’s okay. It’s fine. You can say no. That’s... it’s fine.”

He wants to say no. He almost does. Heartbeats pass—maybe five for the Mission, a dozen for the Soldier.

Finally, the Soldier unfolds his body. He opens himself up, raises his face, and looks, dauntless, back at the man across the room.

“What.”

Relief rushes out of the Mission’s lungs, and then he’s on his feet and passing through the shadows. He lowers himself onto the bed and it bends around his weight, his own specific gravity well; he moves slowly, slowly enough to be stopped, but the Soldier doesn’t try, and the Mission pulls him into the well, into his arms, wraps him up tight and buries his face in the Soldier’s too-long hair, breath skating light across the space behind his ear.

When the Mission speaks, his voice rattles, hoarse, in the Soldier’s jaw.

“Nothing,” he starts. Falters. Breathes. Tries again. _“Nothing_ is worth you dying, Buck. Not one goddamn thing.”

**Please don’t make me do this.**

The Soldier is a jar of lightning, pent-up, and the jar is contracting. It’s contracting—the glass will break. It’ll _break_...

It’s the smell that does it. As the Soldier breathes, he feels his pulse slow. The top layers are strange and new, but underneath there’s a fine film of something that isn’t strange, something that isn’t new, something that’s warm and heady and utterly, completely known.

And this, right here, is so familiar it aches: being locked in an embrace with this man, _this_ one, the spectre of death hanging between them. He knows this. He knows.

“You’re a punk,” the Soldier remembers.

The Mission— _Steve—_ hiccups. His grip tightens.

“Jerk.”

They stay like that for a while, and it’s... it’s okay. It’s almost too much _(too warm too big too close),_ but the Soldier winds his fingers into the bedspread, and it’s okay. Steve is huge and firm and completely unrelenting, until the Soldier squirms a little in his grip, and he lets go.

When Steve’s face comes into view again, he’s wearing this watery smile.

“Well,” Steve starts, putting some distance between himself and the Soldier, “if you’re feeling up to it, you’re welcome to take a shower.”

The Soldier blinks, nods. “Okay.”

Steve shoots him an encouraging smile before he stands and heads toward the door into the hall. The Soldier takes a few shaky breaths in the quiet, then slides off the bed.

The bathroom is next door, and it’s utterly pristine, the counters white and the fixtures silver and the walls painted an innocuous beige. The mirror shines bright in the overhead light. The Soldier avoids looking at it.

“So, uh, there’s some shampoo in here, and some soap,” Steve babbles, pointing out bottles and bars in the shower. “Clean towels over here. Oh—” Steve turns and looks from the Soldier’s face to his broken arm, then back to his face. “Did you—do you think you’ll need—need help, uh, with the—?”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he says, and realizes he kind of means it.

Steve nods. “Okay. Well, I’ll just grab you a change of clothes...”

As Steve brushes past him, the Soldier catches his arm.

“Steve.”

Their eyes meet, and it’s so intense. The Soldier feels that lightning-buzz again.

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve asks, soft.

The Soldier looks down at the place where his metal hand touches Steve’s skin. “When I come back... will you tell me about h—about what you remember?”

Steve’s arm shifts, and the Soldier’s hand slips, easy, into Steve’s palm.

“Of course.” His hand tightens around metal fingers. “Anything you need.”

The Soldier looks up into Steve’s gentle smile. He can’t look for long. Eyes flicking down to rest somewhere over Steve’s shoulder, he nods tightly. Steve releases his hand and goes.

The Soldier hides in the corner beside the shower as he strips off his clothes, avoiding the mirror’s harsh gaze. When he catches a glimpse of the knotted scar tissue around his left shoulder, he looks sharply away. He does his best to clean himself with one still-healing arm, rubbing the shampoo into his scalp with metal fingers, giving himself a perfunctory scrub-down with the soap. He’s not sure it’s an improvement until he steps out of the shower and feels the cool wafting against his clean skin, gets a whiff of the sweet smells on the air. He hadn’t realized his shoulders had been wound up, but they unravel now.

The Soldier pads barefoot back to the bedroom, wearing the blue sweatshirt from before and a pair of gray sweatpants whose legs are slightly too long, dragging a little on the carpet. His metal hand is tucked inside his sleeve. He steps through the bedroom door and finds Steve sitting on one side of the bed, reading a book; it takes a few seconds for the Soldier to remember how to read English, but when he does, he registers the title: _More Than Human._ Steve cradles the little book in his huge hand like it’s something precious.

He looks up at the Soldier’s approach, and seems helpless to the smile that breaks over his face.

“Hey,” Steve says, setting the book aside.

“Hey,” the Soldier replies, standing in the doorway.

Steve pats the empty space beside him. “Sit with me?”

There’s a magnet inside the Soldier’s chest, he’s sure—for a second he panics, wondering whether his handlers may actually have buried a magnet beneath his ribs, because it’s way too fucking easy for him to walk forward and sit on the bed beside this man, closer than he intended, but totally at peace there. He sags against the headboard and watches Steve, waits.

“Feel any better?” Steve’s smile is hopeful and tiny.

The Soldier nods. “Yeah.”

“Good. That’s good, Buck. I’m... Well. Good.”

Steve wiggles a bit, turning to face the Soldier, folding his hands in his lap. He leans his head back and meets the Soldier’s eye, something fragile and unreadable in his eyes. Then he glances down at a point beside the Soldier’s knees, thinking.

“Alright, let’s see... So, I used to draw a lot. I still do, just not as much. But I always hid my notebook from you, ‘cause I was embarrassed. I didn’t think I was any good. When we were fourteen, you finally managed to sneak a peek at my work, and you looked at it all wide-eyed and then you looked at me and you said, ‘Steve, these are amazing.’ I didn’t believe you, of course, but you kept hounding me. For years, you wouldn’t shut up about how good I was, and how I should go to art school and then I could go work for Walt Disney or something, ‘cause I was so in love with his animation, and then I’d be rich and famous and the bullies couldn’t touch me. You got through eventually—when we were nineteen, I got into this little school in Brooklyn, and you were so proud. That was the best part of it, for me. How proud you were. I could only afford it for a year, but after that you worked real hard at the docks and saved up a little money, and the day I turned twenty-one, you told me you’d signed us both up for an art class. I felt so bad you’d spent all that money—I wanted to split the fees with you, but you wouldn’t hear it. It was a birthday present, you said. Still the best birthday present I ever got. I was so happy to be in that class with you, to share that with you. Anything I drew, you loved. Got pretty good yourself, too.

“That’s where we were when the news hit about Pearl Harbor, and about the US going to war. I’d never seen you look so scared. We left class that day, and instead of going home, you dragged me out to this boxing gym and taught me how to fight—not how to scrap, which I’d been doing my whole life, but real fighting. It was easy, just like dancing, you said, and I told you I didn’t know how to dance. God, you were so shocked. You were sure you’d taken me out dancing at least once—and you had, only I always sat off to the side and watched. You never noticed, you were so into it. You loved dancing. So I told you I didn’t know how, and you said, ‘Well, no friend of mine is gonna learn how to fight but not how to dance,’ and you promised you’d teach me sometime. You said, ‘Lemme move in with you. That’ll make it easier; we’ll find a night and move all the furniture outta the way and I’ll teach you how to dance.’

“That was the other thing you did that day. You’d been asking over and over since ma’s funeral in June if you could move in, help me with rent, because you knew I was having a hard time keeping up, but that day you were dead set on it. You wouldn’t budge. So I finally agreed, and you moved out of your parents’ house and into the spare bedroom, and that place had been so empty since ma died, but, Buck, you filled it up. We never did find a night for those dancing lessons, but we were happy there, together. Dog-tired, but happy. I remember this one night, you’d just gotten home...”

The Soldier drifts off.

 

* * *

 

_“C’mon, Steve, it’s easy. Look at the footwork, here—it’s just like dancing.”_

_He holds his fists in front of his chest and imagines opening them up, reaching out, closing his fingers around small, charcoal-stained hands; he moves his feet, light and quick, and imagines moving them slow and sure, in tandem with a second pair. He dreams of dancing with the scrawny, scrappy artist with the shaggy hair and the bright blue eyes, and he teaches the artist how to fight, because if Bucky gets shipped off to war, he needs to know Steve’ll be safe._

He opens his eyes. His head feels heavy. He’s curled on his side, on top of the blankets, away from the pillows, forehead almost touching his knees. He’s alone. Sunlight fights to get in through the blinds. Soft hisses, small clatters, and low voices beat lightly against the closed door.

The Soldier drags himself up and out of bed, waiting a moment as gravity loosens its grip on his limbs. The metal arm is harder to move now than it was yesterday, the metal plates sticking together, the joint clicking ominously. Still, if the Soldier knows anything, it’s silence; he opens the bedroom door without a sound, and his bare feet don’t even whisper against the carpet in the hallway.

The red-haired woman is the first to notice his approach. She turns, and her face doesn’t change at all. She clears her throat softly.

A man is rummaging in the fridge. He straightens up and peers over the open door, then freezes, fingers tightening on the door handle. It’s the guarded man from yesterday, the one who called Steve out of the room. Steve is bending over something on the stove; he glances at the red-haired woman, then turns to follow her line of sight. When he catches sight of the Soldier, he smiles.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve abandons the spatula he’s holding and crosses to the Soldier. “Sleep okay?”

The Soldier breaks eye contact, nods stiffly at the floor.

“Good,” Steve murmurs. “You looked like you could use it.”

The Soldier doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. All his senses are on high alert. He catalogues exits: the elevator to his right; the balcony to his left; the terrace in the bedroom, if the others fail. He thinks he could make it into an air duct if he has to.

“Bucky.” And it’s so soft, and Steve’s hand has found the wrist of the Soldier’s flesh-and-blood arm, which hurts much less now. The Soldier looks up, and there’s that wide-open smile.

“Bucky, this is Sam,” Steve says, gesturing toward the guarded man, who’s closed the fridge and drawn closer behind Steve, looking about as tense as the Soldier feels. At the sound of his name, though, the man walks to where the Soldier can see him, and extends his hand—the left one.

“Good to finally meet you,” says Sam, and for all the distrust still evident on his face, he sounds sincere. After a beat, the Soldier reaches out jerkily with his metal hand and takes Sam’s.

Steve smiles wider, then turns to the red-haired woman. “And this is Natasha,” he says.

The woman stalks forward as the Soldier lets go of Sam’s hand, and there’s a level of control in her step that to the Soldier’s trained eye looks absolutely lethal. A strange mixture of alarm and admiration bubbles in the Soldier’s stomach. He stands a little straighter.

“When we met, you were trying to kill me,” she says nonchalantly. “But you’d be surprised how many of my friendships start out that way. Call me Nat.”

The Soldier regards her warily. She’s not smiling, but there’s something weightless in her eye that makes the Soldier relax.

She’s regarding him, too. A moment’s silence, and she announces, “You, my new friend, are in dire need of a shave. Come on,” and she walks past him, stopping to offer him her hand. The Soldier stares at that hand and feels his ribs contract; he glances at Steve, but Steve doesn’t look worried at all. He nods.

Hesitantly, the Soldier takes Natasha’s hand, and she leads him back down the hall.

As they pass through the doorway to the bathroom, Sam hisses to Steve, “Man, I know he’s your friend and all, and I’m sorry, but I still don’t trust him. The guy tried to kill us, and he may be off the leash now, but he looks like he could crack any minute.”

“He’s trying, Sam. Please, just give him a chance.”

Natasha shuts the bathroom door.

“Alright, hop up,” she says, patting the countertop.

The Soldier stares at her. She just watches him, expectant.

He levers himself onto the counter.

Natasha hums. “We’re gonna have to tie back all this hair.” She nudges the Soldier’s leg out of the way and opens a drawer, rifling through it until she finds an elastic. Then she gestures for the Soldier to turn his head, and he does. She moves behind him. The Soldier starts when Natasha’s fingers weave into his hair, tugging it gently back from his temples.

With her fingers on his scalp, the Soldier says, “I don’t remember you.”

Natasha clucks. “They wiped you, huh? I’ve been there, man. It’s not pretty. We were on the bridge in DC. Let’s see, I short-circuited your arm, you shot me in the shoulder. Ooh, do you remember my bazooka?”

The Soldier tries hard to ignore his own reflection in the corner of his eye. “Oh,” he says. “Bazooka. Yeah.”

“There you go. Henceforth, you can refer to me as the scary bazooka lady. Although, don’t give that one to Clint. He’ll never let it go.”

She taps his shoulder twice and then moves to stand in front of him. He faces her.

Natasha rifles through another drawer and comes up with a razor and a can of shaving cream. “You okay if I do this for you? I wouldn’t normally, and don’t expect a repeat performance, but you’ve got one broken arm and one malfunctioning one, so I figure you could use the help. I promise I’m even better with a blade than you are.”

The Soldier just clenches his jaw and nods.

“Now, don’t be all macho-jaw when I’ve got the razor, or it won’t even be my fault when you start bleeding,” she says, spraying a dollop of shaving cream on her hand. The Soldier forces himself to relax.

Silence falls between them as Natasha spreads shaving cream on the Soldier’s face and neck. Her hands on him are almost as gentle as Steve’s, and it’s somehow even scarier than the thought of her holding a razor to his throat.

“Why are you doing this?” the Soldier blurts, before he can stop himself.

Natasha’s gaze flickers up to his, but she doesn’t pause. She finishes with the cream and leans over to rinse her hands in the sink, then picks up the razor and drags it gently down the Soldier’s neck.

She’s almost finished shaving him by the time she answers.

“I’m doing this because I’ve been where you are,” says Natasha, voice low. “Because they took everything I had, made me into the worst kind of weapon, and I still managed to drag myself out of the mud and do better. I’m not even that good a person, and I could do that. From all I’ve heard about you, you’re one-up on me already. You’re a good guy who’s done some bad things, but I trust you to pull yourself up and do better.”

Natasha steps back, rinses the razor one last time, sets it aside. She looks the Soldier straight in the eye as she hands him a clean towel.

“Prove me right,” she says, and walks out.

The Soldier sits in silence after she leaves. He rinses his face slowly, with his right hand; the metal arm isn’t moving much anymore. When he raises his head, he hazards a glance in the mirror. He still doesn’t look like the man in the museum, but he looks like he’s slept and washed, and maybe that’s enough. He heads out.

Nobody’s talking when the Soldier rejoins the group in the kitchen. Natasha’s tucking into some scrambled eggs and bacon at the little four-person table; Steve is setting down a plate of pancakes; Sam is cooking on the stove, his back to the room. Tension rides on both Sam’s and Steve’s shoulders. It bleeds out of Steve’s when he catches sight of the Soldier—he goes so limp, in fact, that he almost drops the plate he’s holding, but Natasha swipes it from his hands before he can, spearing a couple pancakes for herself.

Steve’s staring now. The Soldier shuffles awkwardly.

“Close your mouth, Steve, you’ll catch flies,” Natasha drawls.

The Soldier ducks his head. “Is it bad...?” Sam turns around at the sound of his voice. He looks angry, at first, but something in his face softens.

“Is it—no! No, it’s not—it’s...” Steve bites his lip. “It’s great, Buck. You look great.”

The Soldier breathes, nods his head. Steve turns and swipes a thumb across his cheek.

“Man, when was the last time you ate?” Natasha’s mouth is full of pancake as she says it. “If you want some of this, you better come get it, because it is fucking delicious and I am not saving you any.”

Sam crosses to the table. “Plenty of food to go around,” he says, setting down another plate full of eggs. He sits down across from Natasha and starts loading up a plate of his own.

“Oh, right, yeah.” Steve visibly shakes himself, walking around the table and pulling out the chair nearest the Soldier, gesturing an invitation for him to sit. “Are you hungry? Eat as much as you like. Or I can make something else, if you want?”

The Soldier sits in the proffered chair. He stares in momentary confusion at the array of food, then picks up a fork and spears a pancake, the way he’d seen Natasha do. He eats it plain, with his flesh hand. His first bite is small. His next is bigger.

Steve looks relieved as he walks back to his own seat and starts making up a plate. The Soldier watches Steve carefully, cataloguing the proper methods for serving himself eggs and bacon. When he’s finished his pancake, he spears two more and gets himself some of the rest of it too. All of this, he does with his right arm.

Sam notices. “Prosthetic giving you trouble?”

The Soldier gives a lopsided shrug. “Ain’t movin’ much anymore,” he explains.

“Oh, Stark said he’d look at it,” says Steve. “Only if you want him to. But he might be able to get it working again for you. Do you want me to call him down after breakfast?”

The Soldier only hesitates an instant. He nods. “Okay.”

He eats a lot. More than he thought he would. Steve looks pleased.

After breakfast, Steve asks someone called JARVIS to send a message to Stark so he’ll come down and look at the Soldier’s arm. The Soldier learns that JARVIS is a computer that runs the building. It takes him a minute to remember what a computer is. He’s a little put-off by the idea, but the voice sounds harmless enough.

While Steve sends his missive, the Soldier relocates to one of the couches. The whole outer wall of the room is a pane of glass, and the sun pours through it unfettered by any blinds. The cushion beneath the Soldier’s hand is sun-warm. The light tickles his face.

Natasha and Sam sit across the room, conversing quietly. After a minute, Steve comes over and sits next to the Soldier.

“How’s your other arm doing?” he asks.

“Better,” the Soldier replies.

Steve looks relieved. “That’s good. Natasha dug up your file for me—I guess Zola gave you a version of the same serum Erskine used on me, so you can heal almost as fast as I can. That part’s lucky, at least, huh?”

The Soldier doesn’t answer. He wonders what else Steve read in that file.

A short time later, the elevator opens with a little _ding._

“Have no fear, Tony is here! Is this him? Well-met, Sergeant. I loved you in _Terminator_.”

“Yeah, Stark, this is—” Steve stops. “Bucky? Bucky, what is it?”

The Soldier’s breathing too hard, too fast. His eyes are stuck on this man’s face, and he can’t look away.

“Bucky? Come on, Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“Steve, you might want to back off. Remember what I said about him cracking?”

“He won’t hurt me, Sam.”

“I’ve seen this before. Give ‘em enough demons to wrestle, and even the best guys can’t help themselves.”

He’s staring at this man’s face. Something’s rising up his throat.

**Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Howard Stark!**

The Soldier chokes on a sob. He’s on his feet and across the room before he even realizes it; he stumbles around a coffee table, the leg of a chair, and finds a door in the glass wall that leads out onto the balcony. He cracks the glass pulling it open.

The concrete floor of the balcony is warm on his bare feet. The Soldier careens into the railing and sags over it, sucking in huge lungfuls of thin air, staring down at the cars passing below. Like ants. Ephemeral. Impermanent. Crushable.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He jumps. “Shhh, deep breaths,” says Natasha. “A little slower, or you’re gonna pass out.”

The Soldier knows how to follow orders, so he does. His breathing slows, and after a minute or two, the worst of it has passed, though he’s still shaking.

“You’re okay.” Natasha’s rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Come on, you’re okay.”

The Soldier straightens and rotates so he’s leaning back against the railing. He can see the rest of the balcony now, and the living room, through the glass. Steve and Tony are still inside. Tony’s mouth is moving; Steve keeps casting nervous glances out onto the balcony.

Natasha wasn’t the only one to follow him outside. Sam’s here, too, standing by the door, looking wary. Like a guard dog, the Soldier thinks, and barks a hysterical laugh.

“Hey, now, none of that. You’re okay. Talk to me. What happened?”

The Soldier focuses on breathing steadily for a minute. His brain is a jumble of images and sounds and he can feel the chemicals burning through it all. He tries to make sense of it.

“His name is Stark?” he asks, in lieu of an answer.

“Yeah. Tony Stark. You might have known his father, Howard?”

The Soldier bites down on the inside of his cheek, fighting down another bout of hysteria.

“Yeah, I knew his father,” he says darkly. “Pretty sure I _killed_ his father.”

Natasha’s hand on his back goes still.

“Yeah, I... Jesus Christ, I remembered his face. They look so goddamn similar. I knew the guy, and then I... Oh, god... Oh my god, he was Steve’s _friend,_ and this guy’s _father,_ and I knew him, I fucking knew him...”

Natasha moves in front of him, cradles his face in her hands. “Hey,” she says, urgent. _“Hey._ That’s enough.”

_He’s on a bridge. He’s in the middle of the road. There’s a car coming—he sees the headlights. The lights get bigger; the car gets closer. He can see faces through the windshield, and they’re laughing, until they see him, and then they’re panicked, and the one behind the wheel is slamming on the brakes but it’s too late, he puts out his metal hand and stops the car, the fender crumples beneath his fist, the car stops, the people fly forward, their skulls smack against the windshield and the windshield sprouts spiderwebs and there’s red seeping into the cracks—_

“The look on his face when he died...” He’s shaking, he’s shaking like a fucking leaf. “Christ, the look on his face _after_ he died—and his wife, too... Jesus Christ—”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Natasha interrupts. “Shut the fuck up for a minute.”

The Soldier shuts his mouth.

“Yes, you killed Stark’s parents,” Natasha starts, and the Soldier realizes she doesn’t sound at all surprised. “That happened. You wish it didn’t. But you can’t go back and undo it, so what do you do now? You’re picking yourself up, you’re rebuilding. What do you need to do, right now, to be better than what you’ve done?”

“What... what do I... need... I...”

The Soldier forces himself to think. Breathes deep and slow. The trembling ebbs.

“...I gotta tell him,” the Soldier decides. “I need him to know what I did. I can’t... I can’t ask him to help me if he doesn’t know.”

Natasha releases the Soldier’s face. “So let’s tell him.”

She turns and crosses the balcony, passing Sam as she goes inside. A few more shaky breaths, and the Soldier follows. Halfway across the balcony, he makes another decision; before he heads inside, he stops in front of Sam.

“Listen,” he says, looking Sam straight in the eye, “I know you don’t trust me. And that’s fine. That’s good, actually, because I’m about to go in there and tell Stark that I was the one who... who killed his parents. And knowing I did that, and knowing I’ve done more, and worse, _I_ don’t even trust me. And I know—I know Steve does, and I think I need that, but I will hurl myself over this balcony before I let myself hurt him again. And because maybe I won’t be able to stop myself, and Christ knows Steve won’t stop me, he’s so damn careless, I need you to promise me that if I do crack, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep him and everyone else safe. _Whatever_ it takes. Can you do that?”

Sam looks completely floored. He recovers after a few moments, and then, incongruously, he grins, offering the Soldier his right hand. The Soldier takes it.

“You got yourself a deal,” says Sam. His handshake is much more earnest than it was the first time. “After that little speech, though, I’m not sure it’ll be much of a problem.”

“Just keep your eyes peeled,” the Soldier says, dropping Sam’s hand.

“Well, they do call me the Falcon.”

The Soldier sidesteps Sam and walks inside. He hears Sam come in behind him. Steve stands up sharply when they approach. Stark actually looks kind of amused.

“Was it something I said? It was the _Terminator_ joke, wasn’t it? Nobody likes getting compared to Schwarzenegger.”

Natasha’s standing a couple feet away from Stark. When the Soldier meets her eye, she nods.

The Soldier glances over at Steve. He looks scared. The Soldier looks away.

“Thank you for offering to fix my arm,” he starts, somewhat awkwardly, meeting Stark’s eye. “But there’s something you need to know first.”

“Oh?”

The Soldier swallows. “HYDRA ordered a hit on your parents,” he says.

“Yeah, I figured that one out like six hundred years ago.”

“I carried it out.”

Stark just looks at him. Then, like taking off a pair of shades, the devil-may-care façade falls from his face. He sighs.

“I know.”

The Soldier comes up short. “You... you _know?”_

“I went through all this a few years ago,” says Stark. “Figured out my parents’ death wasn’t an accident, did some digging. Didn’t come up with much, but I did get a codename: the Winter Soldier. Then all this stuff coming out of DC, and the Winter Soldier popping up again, and then it turns out he’s Cap’s long lost buttbuddy or whatever. I knew who you were long before I sent that helicopter to the Smithsonian. I sent it anyway. Figured if you’ve got Captain America’s incredibly garish seal of approval, you can’t be all bad.”

The Soldier opens his mouth. Shuts it. Looks at Steve. He looks... he looks fucking _relieved._

“You, too?” he asks.

Steve nods. “It was in the file.”

The Soldier stares down at the floor, breathing hard through his nose.

“And you still wanna fix me,” he says.

“Oh, I don’t care about you,” Tony assures him. “I just care about the arm. I’m kind of excited, actually. That’s a sleek bit of machinery you got there. Though, I’m already seeing several improvements I could make...”

The Soldier takes one more breath, then forces himself to look up again. He meets Steve’s eye, silently questioning.

Steve shakes his head. “There’s nothing to fix, Buck,” he says. “I just want to bring you home.”

The Soldier’s eyes well up. He focuses on breathing.

“Aaaaand on that note, shall we retire to the lab? I’ll need some readings on this baby before I can build one that’s sleeker, sexier, and far more expensive. At no cost to you, of course. Call it pro bono. Although I’ve never liked U2.”

Steve searches the Soldier’s face. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The Soldier shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he says, and he means it.

“Come on, then, Megatron, let’s get this show on the road.”

Stark gets into the elevator, and the Soldier follows, casting one last glance over the room: Sam and Nat looking at him like he’s something worth looking at; Steve looking at him like he’s the _only_ thing worth looking at. The doors slide shut.

“Listen,” says Stark, “is there something you wanna be called? I mean I probably won’t call you by it anyway—sorry, much as I value agency and independence as concepts, I value robot puns far more—but the others aren’t as clever as me, so they need a standardized system of monikers. You wanna help them out?”

He thinks about it. Clenches a fist. Raises his head.

“Call me Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _More Than Human_ is a 1953 science fiction novel by Theodore Sturgeon (known for writing lots of homoerotic subtext into his considerable repertoire of sci-fi short stories, so there's that). It's sort of a pre-X-Men X-Men story, revolving around the idea that humans will evolve to have superpowers like telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation, other tele-things, etc. I've got Steve reading it here because clearly he'd be a super sci-fi geek, and would want to catch up on all the stuff he's missed in that department, and also because some of the book's main themes revolve around dismantling false hierarchies, relying on others, and finding your way home, all of which are relevant to both Steve's story and Bucky's. It's a great book, you should read it if you get the chance!


	2. Come back to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then, 9000 years and several psychotic breaks later, it was finished.
> 
> This pretty much ignores all of Age of Ultron, just because I started writing it long before AOU came out. As such, for Clint's character I went with Matt Fraction's Hawkeye, because what the fuck else would you use. That shit's flawless.
> 
> The beginning is heavily inspired by my own experience chopping off all my hair. Also, I've shamelessly stolen a callback line from _Atonement_ , because -- well, because I'm shameless.
> 
> Endless, endless thanks are due to all the wonderful people over on tumblr who helped me through this thing, but especially to Rags [stuckystan](http://stuckystan.tumblr.com) and Pax [findingbarnes](http://findingbarnes.tumblr.com) for reading chunks of this as I wrote it and reassuring me that it's not terribad, and to Phi [lostcap](http://lostcap.tumblr.com) and Hannah [steviebucks](http://steviebucks.tumblr.com) for being enthusiastic supporters/cheerleaders. Also thanks to my live-in fic reader Clare [phoundphrases](http://phoundphrases.tumblr.com) for reading the whole draft after I finished it and helping me work out the final kinks. I knew I indoctrinated you for a reason.
> 
> Come find me [on tumblr](http://honesteve.tumblr.com)!!

“Ugh,” Bucky groans, dragging his fingers across his scalp. “Hair’s so fuckin’ long.”

“William Wallace, I have been saying that since the bastard Longshanks took his first royal piss in Loch Ness. Will you _finally_ let me chop it off?”

“I ain’t smart, pal, but I ain’t stupid enough to let you near me with a pair of scissors.”

“And yet you’ll let me near you with a blowtorch? Yes, of course, the guy with the extremely dangerous flamethrowing tool commonly used on heavy machinery is much more trustworthy than the guy with the average household implement.”

“That’s not trust. You fuck up, I break you.”

“Whatever, buddy. Good luck finding another billionaire engineering genius who’ll keep doing maintainence on your weird Russian assassin limb _and_ foot the bill for it. Anyway, it’s just fashion advice. Have you seen me? I’m hot. You should listen to me.”

Tony’s hunched over Bucky’s metal arm, a pair of tinted goggles shielding his eyes from all the sparks. The blowtorch’s unnaturally bright flame shoots the contours of his face through with shadows.

Bucky’s a little tense, he’ll admit. It’s not the first time he’s been in Tony’s lab—and boy, had _that_ gone well—but it hasn’t gotten much easier since then. He forces himself to think about all the ways this room is different from the bank vault: it’s a mess, desks and worktops littered with the detritus of what Bucky guesses is Tony’s so-called genius; the outer wall is all windows, which seems to be Tony’s style, and they let in a shocking amount of winter sunlight; he and Tony are the only two people in the room.

“Pun intended,” Tony’s saying. “Get it? I’m hot? And I’m holding a blowtorch? Hey, Lieutenant-Commander Data, what did I _just_ say about listening?”

“I was a sergeant,” Bucky corrects, shaking himself.

“Yeah, I know, it’s—ugh, never mind. You and Cap really deserve each other, you know that?”

Bucky goes still, and doesn’t reply.

“Tony,” comes Sam’s disapproving voice from the doorway. “Stop teasing him.”

“How do you know I was teasing? Maybe I meant it.”

“You never mean it.”

Sam walks right up to Bucky and slaps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly as he shoots Bucky a grin. The tension rushes out of Bucky all at once.

“Hey, man,” says Sam, voice warm. “How’s the arm?”

“Better, I think,” Bucky replies. “Unless Stark decided to be a dick.”

“ _James Buchanan Barnes!_ I _never_ , in all my _years_ —”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Tony, your middle name is ‘dick.’”

Tony stops mid-sentence, mouth agape, then shrugs. “Yeah, okay. You got me there. But at least I’m a helpful, arm-fixing dick. Don’t I deserve some sort of gratitude for that?”

Tony puts down the blowtorch and backs off a pace or two. Bucky picks his arm up off the worktop and flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulder. A shiver runs through him as the new nerve endings Tony developed start waking up, sending jolts of bewildering sensation up his arm. He still can’t feel temperature through the metal, but he can feel _something._ Bucky’d become so used to the phantom twinges and pains, he’d forgotten what real sensation was like.

“That remains to be seen,” Sam’s saying to Tony. He takes his hand off Bucky’s shoulder and raises it in a fist.

Bucky stares at Sam’s hand, then at his face.

“The ultimate test,” says Sam. “Go on. Pound it.”

Bucky blinks twice. Makes a fist again. Touches metal knuckles tentatively to flesh ones. He gets a little breathless at the gentle press of Sam’s fingers.

Sam smiles. “Yeah, you’re good.”

He slings his arm around Bucky’s neck as Bucky slides out of his chair.

“When was the last time you had some fresh air?” Sam asks, leading Bucky out of the room. “Come on, let’s go grab a bite.”

“I guess that means I’m not invited,” Tony calls after them. “Well, fine! I had plans with Pepper, anyway! JARVIS, tell Pepper we’re having lunch.”

“Ms. Potts is in London this afternoon, sir.”

“And? What else do I have a private jet for?”

The soothing sounds of Tony bickering with JARVIS over the logistics of impulsive transnational travel fade as Bucky and Sam near the elevator. A few steps, and Sam reclaims his arm from around Bucky’s shoulders, freeing Bucky to walk normally, rather than shuffling with his knees partially bent to accommodate the fact that Sam is actually slightly shorter than him. Bucky hits the button for the elevator as Sam’s hand passes across his shoulder-length hair and then hovers there, fretting at the tangled ends.

“Dude,” says Sam, “I think it’s time for a haircut.”

“Was just sayin’ the same thing to Stark,” Bucky admits.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Sam and Bucky enter together.

“Well, do you want to go somewhere after lunch?” Sam asks as the doors slide shut. “There’s this great little barber shop I found, friendly people, great service, not too expensive. Not that it matters, since Tony’s paying for basically everything these days.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know what to say, really—he has no rational reason to refuse Sam’s suggestion, but the thought of a stranger hovering around him with a sharp implement just... doesn’t sit well. He fidgets, unsure how to go forward.

He never has to figure it out. Sam glances at him, then switches gears quickly. “Actually, better idea. I think Clint knows how to cut hair. You want to stop by his place instead?”

Bucky relaxes. “Yeah,” he says gratefully. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The doors slide open on the bottom floor, and the winter sun spills into the widening gap. The lobby of the tower is done up in Tony’s characteristic style of ridiculous transparency, and today’s the first really sunny day since the new year began, so the thin sort of sunlight that characterizes a New York January filters in through the building’s glass face, and Bucky takes a second just to breathe it in. Sam goes over to the coat room; after a beat, Bucky follows, and gets handed the coat Steve made him buy as soon as the temperature dropped below fifty.

“Hey,” Bucky asks, slipping into the coat. “Do you know if Steve’s back yet?”

Sam shakes his head. “Not yet. Shouldn’t be too long, though. Fury just wanted to brief him, right?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Sam looks at him and laughs. “God, you’re like a little lost puppy without him. Maybe Tony wasn’t serious, but he was spot-on. You two deserve each other.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves Sam’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Sam laughs. “You first.” Then he sobers up a little, looking sincere when he says, “He’ll be fine. Back before you know it.”

Bucky just nods, and says nothing.

They get some boots and scarves out of the coat room and then head out into the New York winter. The streets are coated in a couple inches of snow, and it crunches beneath Bucky’s boots as he follows Sam down the sidewalk. The light is bright and cool, and the buildings loom around them just a little taller and a little closer than they used to. They’re heading to some pizza parlor Sam likes.

“My buddy Riley used to love this place. We’d take trips up here sometimes when we were on leave,” he explains as they walk, a little fond, and a little sad. Bucky wonders where Riley is now. He doesn’t ask.

Instead, he asks, “What would Riley recommend?”

Sam grins at him. “Aw, man, it’s the worst. He used to get, like, mushrooms and olives and anchovies, and white sauce instead of red. God, even just the memory of that smell makes me want to hurl.”

“Yeah, ew, we’re not ordering that.”

“Definitely not.”

When they get there, they go with a simple pepperoni and claim a table by the window, eating and talking and watching people pass by outside. Bucky still feels a little strange in public sometimes—he sees people walking around, living their normal lives, and they don’t quite feel real to him. They’re like painted people, illusions; on the worst days, they feel like puppets, inserted into his mind and manipulated to trick him into a false sense of security as his agency is held captive. This was never a tactic HYDRA used on him—they never planted new memories in his head, just erased old ones—but Sam assures him that paranoia like that is pretty standard after severe trauma. He tries to make sure Bucky gets out as often as possible, gets used to being around people again, and Bucky’s never quite been able to find a voice for his gratitude, but he thinks Sam knows anyway.

After lunch, they get on the subway and head out to Brooklyn. Bucky’s been back a handful of times during his recovery; he once took a trip to where his and Steve’s apartment used to be. Just once. These days, he only ever really goes to Brooklyn to visit Clint, who refuses to move out of his apartment and into Stark Tower, even though Tony’s attempts to persuade him are becoming increasingly flamboyant and hazardous to anyone who happens to be nearby.

Outside Clint’s building, Sam buzzes the intercom. After an uncomfortably long pause, there’s a buzz back, then some rustling and some banging and some cursing, and then Clint’s voice, hoarse from sleep.

“Dammit, Kate, I told you I was takin’ a day off,” he mumbles through the static.

“Not Kate, dude,” Sam drawls, amused.

“Oh! Oh, damn—hang on a sex. _Sec._ Dammit, you’re not even hot!”

“Care to repeat that?”

“Uh, yeah, what I said was: Dammit! You’re so _incredibly_ sultry and seductive! How could a man resist?”

“That’s better.”

Clint buzzes them in, and they walk up the stairs to his floor. Sam knocks, and Clint answers immediately. “I didn’t mean that at all,” he says quickly. “The part about you not being hot, I mean. What I meant, really, was that I couldn’t see you, so you _couldn’t_ be hot because you were only a voice—but then I guess your voice is pretty hot, too, so—”

“You gonna invite us in or not?” Bucky cuts in.

 _“Jesus!”_ Clint nearly jumps out of his skin. “When did you get there?”

“Been here the whole time,” says Bucky. “Let us in.”

“Oh, g—yeah, okay.” Clint steps aside, letting Sam and Bucky inside. As Bucky passes, he swears he hears Clint muttering something about _goddamn hot people makin’ me all flustered, way too many hot people around, why do I do this to myself_ under his breath. He shuts the door.

“So!” Clint whirls around with a flourish. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“We hear you’re good with a pair of scissors,” says Sam.

Clint’s eyes go immediately to Bucky’s unruly mop of hair. “I’ve been known to pick ‘em up now and again. What’ll you give me if I do?”

“After that greeting?” balks Sam. “Man, I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

Clint slumps. “Fair point, well-made. Alright, Barnes, you’ll be wanting a haircut then, I take it?”

“Yeah.”

“What’re we thinking? Bowl cut? Mohawk? Frosted tips?”

“Dude,” Sam interjects, looking appalled.

“Just... short,” says Bucky.

Clint hums thoughtfully. “Okay. I think I can work with that. If you’ll just direct yourself to the beauty parlor,” he gestures down the hall, “I’ll grab some scissors and meet you in there.”

Bucky nods, stripping off his outerwear and heading down the hall toward the bathroom. Everything in Clint’s apartment is done up in shades of purple, and the bathroom is no exception: the walls are painted a sort of lavender color that makes Bucky think of watching the sun set over the Hudson. In silence, he lets the light of that memory fill his lungs.

Clint comes in thirty seconds later with a pair of scissors and a stool. He sets the latter down and gestures for Bucky to sit on it, which he does.

“Does anyone want a beer?” Sam calls from the kitchen.

“Whose apartment is this, again?” Clint mutters darkly.

Bucky calls back. “I think we’re good.”

“No! Coffee!” hollers Clint.

“Alright, alright,” Sam replies.

Clint then turns his attention, finally, to the task at hand. He faces Bucky toward the mirror and moves behind him, just stands for a second with his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky gets the strange feeling Clint’s giving him a moment to look at himself, so he does. He meets his own eye in the mirror, scans his clean-shaven face, his messy hair, alights briefly on the metallic glint of his left hand. After about twenty seconds, he decides that, yeah, he definitely needs a haircut.

As though he can see the exact moment Bucky’s ready to move forward, Clint lifts his hands and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, snags on a tangle, shakes loose, snags again. Looking disgruntled, he pulls back and leans over to rummage through a drawer, coming up with a comb.

“Alright,” he says when most of Bucky’s tangles have been beaten into submission. “What do we want, Ben Affleck or Keanu Reeves?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Just leave it to me.”

Bucky shakes his head, earning a light slap and a “Stop moving!” from Clint.

It’s a surprisingly long and silent process, the only sounds those of Sam moving around in the kitchen, and of Clint’s scissors snipping off chunks of Bucky’s hair one by one. Bucky keeps his eyes open the whole time, watching the hair fall away and his face emerge. Clint gets out an electric razor toward the end and does Bucky’s sideburns and the nape of his neck. When he’s finally done, he sets the razor down and takes half a step back.

“Like saying goodbye to years of your life, huh?” Clint observes, keen eyes meeting Bucky’s in the mirror.

Bucky doesn’t respond.

“Alright, get up, you’re done,” says Clint finally, breaking eye contact with Bucky and looking down at the floor. “Aw, man,” he whines. “Should’ve put down some newspaper or something. Look at all this hair! I blame you.”

Sam has a steaming cup of coffee waiting for Clint when they emerge, and Clint lunges for it, cradling it like a precious thing between his hands. Sam rolls his eyes with a smile, and then his eyes land on Bucky. He whistles long and low.

“Damn,” murmurs Sam, shaking his head like he’s dazed. “A lot of shit suddenly makes sense now. I’m gonna start calling you Prince Charming.”

“I will end you.”

The intercom buzzes then, and Clint comes up out of his coffee long enough to gripe, “Just a fuckin’ party here today, isn’t it?” Sam’s the one who answers the buzz.

“Clint Barton’s Party Hotline, how can I help you?”

“Sam? Hey, it’s Nat.”

“Oh, hey! Dude, you gotta come see this. Clint just gave Bucky a haircut, and it’s actually insane how good he looks.”

“Goddamn hot people,” Clint grumbles into his coffee.

“Buzz us in,” Nat insists.

Clint straightens in horror. “‘Us’?”

Sam hits the button, and a minute later, the door opens, and Nat walks in.

“Natasha! That door was _locked!_ What have I told you about picking my lock?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you ever answered your door.”

“Okay, fine, but Sam was _right there—_ ”

“Bucky.” Natasha smiles at him, then her eyebrows shoot up as she takes in the hair. “Shit. Sam wasn’t kidding.”

“Right?” Sam comes to stand next to her.

Natasha turns back to the open door. “Bucky, Sam,” she says, “meet Thor and Jane. Pepper just brought them back from London.”

A huge blond man and a tiny brunette woman walk in, and Bucky’s brain kind of fizzles out. Those... those are some hot people.

“Wait, _the_ Thor?” Sam stares. “Thunder-god Thor? Magic-hammer Thor? Saved-the-world-at-least-twice Thor?”

“It is excellent to meet you, Mr. Wilson,” Thor answers, smiling brightly.

“Dude, _please_ call me Sam.” He grabs Thor’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “Steve never shuts up about you. I feel like I know you already.”

Thor smiles, and Bucky bristles. Goddamn hot people.

“Speaking of people Steve never shuts up about,” says the woman—Jane—shrewdly, “is this Bucky?”

Bucky used to be so good at meeting new people, but now he feels clumsy. “Hey,” he replies, waving weakly.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” booms Thor, and sweeps Bucky into a hug that threatens to squeeze his lungs out between his ribs. “Steve has indeed told us much of you. Welcome!”

“Shouldn’t I be sayin’ that to you?” Bucky chokes, finding it harder to hate this guy by the second.

“We’re all welcome. Everyone’s welcome. Let’s invite the whole damn city into my fucking apartment.”

“Clint,” Natasha chides, “be nice.”

“We’re about to leave, anyway,” says Jane. “Pepper’s trying to wrangle Tony back to the Tower—I guess he started flying to London to meet her just as she was flying back here?—but she said Steve’s supposed to get back tonight. Since the gang’s all here, we thought we’d do something.”

Bucky, having finally been set down by Thor, perks up. Sam shoots him a smile.

Clint’s face falls. “Oh. You’re leaving?”

“Thought you wanted us to leave,” Nat teases.

“Shut up. I didn’t mean it.”

“You are welcome to join us,” Thor tells him.

Clint brightens. “Yay, everyone’s welcome,” he says, mostly to himself.

Turns out Pepper sent her envoy with a couple town cars, so Nat, Thor, Jane, Clint, Sam, and Bucky all ride in style back to the Tower. They run into Tony and Pepper at the front of the building.

“Alright, yes, I’ll admit it,” Tony’s saying, “trying to fly to London in time for lunch was a bad idea.”

“And a waste of expensive jet fuel,” Pepper insists.

“And a waste of expensive jet fuel,” Tony parrots. “But I couldn’t help it, could I? I missed you.”

Pepper shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“Pepper!” Natasha waves. Pepper looks over and waves back.

“The cavalry has arrived,” she says, taking in the group. She pauses on Bucky. “Nice haircut,” she tells him.

“Thank you,” Clint replies. Pepper shoots him a look. He shrugs.

“Did you invite Maria?” asks Nat.

“Yeah. She’s on her way.”

“And Steve?” Sam asks, glancing at Bucky.

Pepper smiles. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Dr. Jekyll’s still in the lab, yes?” Tony calls back from the doorway.

Sam shrugs. “Does he ever go anywhere else?”

“Ooh, I think I’ll join him there, actually,” says Jane, smiling faintly.

“Please try not to destroy anything this time,” says Tony. “That equipment is very expensive.”

“I’m sorry, which one of us just wasted half a tank of jet fuel?”

“Touché, little mouse, touché.”

 

* * *

 

They all end up in one of the Tower’s many common spaces. There’s music, and booze, and the lazy, eddying sort of movement that happens when you stick a bunch of people who like each other in a room full of music and booze. They even manage to coax Jane and Bruce out to play, and it’s all a little overwhelming for Bucky, but he ends up on the couch talking to Thor, and that’s not so bad. Turns out, Thor comes from a really fucking weird place, and for half an hour, he tells Bucky all about it.

Bucky’s busy laughing through a story about Thor wrestling the Asgardian equivalent of a bear—described as a terrifying chimera of Earth creatures, and Bucky’s not sure he believes the story, but looking at Thor, he’s not sure he doesn’t, either—when a cheer rises from across the room. Bucky glances toward the door. Maria’s just walked in.

“Maria Hill! Fashionably late, as always,” says Sam, nudging her with his elbow as he passes.

“If I don’t hold up the standard for presentability in this group, who will?” She smirks.

“Hey, I’m hot!” Tony protests.

“You dress like a teenager,” Maria answers reflexively.

“Beer?” Natasha appears at Maria’s side with a bottle.

Maria grins and takes it. “Thanks.”

Beer in hand, she scans the room briefly, and then her eyes fall on Bucky and Thor. She saunters over to them.

“Thor, always a pleasure,” she says smoothly, then turns to Bucky. “Barnes. Has Steve been up yet?”

Bucky worries the label of his own empty bottle. “No, not yet.”

“Oh.” Her brow furrows. “Well, I saw him hiding out in the gym, if you were looking for him.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Thanks,” he says, belatedly, and Maria nods, going to join Pepper and Tony by the window.

Thor’s watching him with a funny expression when Bucky looks around again.

“Will you not seek him out?” Thor asks. “I was under the impression that you were quite anxious to see him.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sounds like he wants to be alone.”

Thor regards him for a moment, a faint smile on his lips. Then, “In my youth in Asgard, I became somewhat notorious for growing emotional and secluding myself from those who cared for me. In those moments, the only person who was ever able to disturb me and live to tell the tale was my brother.”

“This the brother who tried to take over the world with an army of aliens?” Bucky asks tactlessly.

Thor just nods. “As the years stacked against us, he began to lose his way, but there was a time when we existed peacefully together. He was one of my most trusted companions. When I lost him, first to madness, and finally to death, it nearly destroyed me.”

Bucky’s picking at the label on his beer bottle again. In the corner of his eye, he tracks the spread of Thor’s sad smile.

“All the destruction he has wrought,” says Thor quietly, “all the lives he has taken... all that I have lost to his madness, yet I would give still more that my brother might stand at my side again, whole and happy.”

Bucky’s not looking, but he still feels it when Thor’s eyes fall on him.

“We are not all so lucky that we may keep the ones we love,” Thor rumbles. “Steve is quite fortunate to have you.”

Bucky looks up. Thor’s just watching him with a knowing smile.

“...Second thought,” Bucky says, “maybe I will bring him a beer.”

Thor nods. “Excellent plan, my friend.”

Bucky gets to his feet, then stops.

“Thanks,” he says, a little awkward.

Thor waves him away. “Think nothing of it.”

Bucky leaves his empty bottle and gets two new ones from the kitchen, heading with them to the elevator. He fidgets nervously on the way down—god knows why, it’s just _Steve—_ but when the doors slide open on the fitness level, he pauses. A smattering of faint little noises echo down the hall.

The sight that greets Bucky as he stops just outside the gym confirms his suspicions. There’s Steve, back to the door, quite literally beating the stuffing out of a punching bag. The lights are low, and through the wall of windows, New York City winks back at them, illumination from far-away windows glimmering like a halo in Steve’s golden hair, glistening in the sweat on his skin. Bucky’s a little mesmerized by it, and by the way Steve’s muscles move under his T-shirt. He shakes himself.

Bucky sets the two bottles down by the door and creeps up on Steve silently. He’s careful not to let his reflection show in the window, though Steve doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Only when he’s right next to Steve does Bucky make his presence known, whipping out his flesh hand to catch Steve’s next punch.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” he quips, smiling.

Steve looks startled, but seconds later, he’s grinning like he can’t help himself. “Bucky. Hey.”

Bucky lets Steve take his hand back, but it just drifts up to the top of Bucky’s head, fingers brushing the tips of his shorn hair.

“Looks good,” Steve says, heart in his eyes. Bucky swallows.

“In case you missed the memo, there’s somethin’ of a party happening upstairs,” Bucky says, and Steve’s grin falters.

“Yeah, no, I—yeah. I just, I needed a minute, is all.”

Bucky glances significantly at the punching bag, which is leaking sand slowly onto the floor. Steve avoids his eye.

Bucky considers. He could ask what’s wrong, but he’s not getting the feelings-circle vibe from Steve at the moment. He knows his best friend _(I know you)_ : sometimes Steve wants to talk, and sometimes he just wants to beat something to a pulp.

Bucky takes two decisive steps back.

“Like I said,” he opens his arms in invitation, “why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

Steve sighs. “Bucky, I’m fine. Really. Just go back upstairs, I’ll be up in a minute.”

“If you don’t start throwing punches, I will.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to—”

Bucky lunges at Steve, slipping into a fighting stance like it’s a second skin, whipping out with his metal arm so Steve’s forced to block it.

“Too scared to fight me, huh, Rogers?” He smirks.

Steve purses his lips, and—yup, there it is, that little spark in his eye. Rising to the challenge.

“You of all people should know, Buck,” Steve says, mirroring Bucky’s offensive posture, “I’ve never been afraid of a fight in my life.”

They both know that’s not quite true. Bucky leaves it alone.

“Until now, you mean.”

Steve’s fists fall as his shoulders shake on a laugh.

“Oh, it is _so_ on.”

Steve’s still smiling when Bucky lashes out again, first with a punch, then with a kick, forcing his way into Steve’s personal space. Taken a little off-guard, Steve recovers quickly, blocking Bucky’s hits and landing one of his own.

Bucky’s a little mesmerized by this, too—by the way Steve carries himself these days, by the way he moves, the way he fights, hard and fast, but light, too, like he could leap up and start flying at a moment’s notice. There’s nothing of the clumsiness Bucky remembers from when he first taught Steve how to throw a punch, and there’s none of the desperation Steve had when he first got the serum and didn’t quite know his own strength. Steve fights with grace now, with rhythm, and it makes Bucky wonder what it’d be like to see him dance.

Fighting with him feels like a dance. The way their bodies move together, the way they fit, the way they bound in and out of each other’s reach. It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to dancing, anyway. The thought makes Bucky’s ribs feel tight.

He’s struck, too, by how differently he himself moves—Bucky fights with all of Steve’s precision, but none of his elegance. He’s bold and brash and brutal, a stone-cold killer all the way through; he’s dangerous now, more dangerous than ever, and in this moment, he’s giving Steve way more than Steve’s giving him. His anger flares.

“C’mon, Steve,” he goads, aiming a couple jabs at Steve’s stomach, his throat. “’M not made of glass. Are you fighting with me or flirting with me? ‘Cause it feels like you’re flirting. You’re terrible at it, by the way.”

“Aw, Buck, I’ve gotten better!”

“Is that why I’ve never seen you go on a date?”

That earns him a particularly vicious jab right in the solar plexus, and Bucky grins, breathless for more reasons than one.

“Yeah, now I’m feelin’ the love,” he mutters, and kicks it up a notch.

It takes a minute or two, but soon, Steve stops holding back, and Bucky starts to understand just how much tension he has buried beneath that smirk. The smirk falls away; Steve gets rough, sloppy, and watching it happen is like watching the Rock of Gibraltar crumble into the sea. Steve’s hits are increasingly desperate, his lips tightening, his jaw working, his eyes hollowing out till he looks wrecked, haunted. Bucky switches to the defensive and just lets Steve wail on him.

But it all affects Bucky more than he expects it to—in the midst of a fresh wave of grief for his friend, he drops his guard, giving Steve the chance to knock him off his feet.

They fall to the floor in a heap, Bucky trapped beneath Steve, both of them breathing hard. He expects Steve to leap off him right away, but he doesn’t move. After a few seconds, Bucky realizes Steve’s trembling. The last vestiges of aggression fly out of him all at once.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, his stomach twisting itself in knots. He draws his arms up around Steve and holds on tight, for Steve or for himself, he’s not quite sure. “Hey, Steve, it’s alright. Come on, you’re okay.”

Steve’s breathing harshly in Bucky’s ear. A minute, and Bucky realizes there are words buried in there—over and over again, Steve’s saying, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

“Stevie.” Bucky fights to keep his voice steady. “Come on, none of that. You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Steve doesn’t respond. Just breathes, and keeps breathing, steadier by the second. Bucky just swallows hard and keeps tracing soft lines up and down Steve’s spine with his fingertips.

Finally, Steve levers himself off Bucky’s chest.

“Sorry,” he says again, looking sheepish. Bucky scoffs.

“What’d I just say, Rogers?” He sits up so he’s at Steve’s eye level, folds flesh fingers over Steve’s wrist. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me, alright?”

Steve looks at him then, really looks at him, like he’s dying of thirst and he’s just trying to drink Bucky in, parched soil eagerly soaking up the season’s first rain. He’s got this tiny little smile on his face, and it’s doing things to Bucky’s insides. Bucky’s pinned, helpless, beneath that blue gaze.

“God.” Steve shakes his head. “How are you always so...”

“Devilishly handsome?” Bucky offers.

The smile drops off Steve’s face, his eyes wide as he stares at Bucky in surprise. Then his face lights straight up and he starts laughing with his whole body, heaving with it, borderline hysterical, his hand pressed helplessly to his chest.

It’s the laugh that does it. Big, brauny Steve dissolves before Bucky’s eyes, and _Steve’s a scrawny little guy again, standing in a shabby apartment in Brooklyn, looking at Bucky._

_“What do you think?” Bucky raises two flesh arms and presents himself for Steve’s perusal. Along his limbs, the ghost of stiff, structured fabric—a uniform. His first uniform, the one he got just before he shipped off to war._

_Steve’s looking him up and down. His eyes are tight, but when he smiles, it’s genuine._

_“I like it,” he says softly. “You look good.”_

_“Just good?” The memory of his old crooked smile feels a little less foreign to Bucky now._

_Steve rolls his eyes. “Great. You look great, Buck.”_

_There’s a full-length mirror to the left of Steve, and Bucky pivots on his heel so he can see his reflection. He’s smiling as he does it, but the longer he looks, the more the smile slides away, and the more his stomach fills with the acid burn of anxiety, the dull ache of something precious already lost._

_Steve swears. “I should be going with you.”_

_And it’s an argument he and Bucky have been having over and over for weeks, and Bucky answers the same way he always does. “No, you shouldn’t. You should stay here, where you can’t get blown to bits.”_

_“And what, let you get killed instead? I can’t do that, Bucky, you know I can’t. We’ve got each other’s backs, right? I can’t leave you out there all alone.”_

_Bucky tries for the smile again. “Ain’t I the one doin’ the leaving?”_

_“That’s not the point. Buck, if you die out there—if I lose you—”_

_“Hey.”_

_Two short strides bring Bucky into Steve’s space, and he gets down on one knee so he can peer up into Steve’s downturned eyes. Steve’s still not looking at him—he’s glaring at a crack in the floor as though it’s to blame for the draft. And the thing is that Bucky knows exactly where Steve is now, he knows exactly how he’d feel in Steve’s place, and he thinks that he’s probably even more angry about getting drafted than Steve is on his behalf, more angry—more scared—than Steve’ll ever know._

_But it’s never been about Bucky. It’s_ never _been about him. It’s always been about Steve, so Bucky reaches up and grazes Steve’s chin with a fingertip, coaxing him back out of the dark. Steve looks at him square, and his eyes are wide and blue and too bright._

_“You ain’t losin’ anything, alright?” Bucky says, a soft rumble, and the little smile he’s aiming at Steve carries just a shadow of the grief that will follow him. “I’d be a real shit friend if I left you to haunt this old place alone. And even if I do get beat out there—in a very heroic, manly way, after taking out at least a dozen Nazis—I won’t die. Be too bored on the other side without you to keep me company. Claw my way right back to where you are.”_

_Bucky grips Steve’s shoulder and pulls him down so their foreheads are pressed together. Voice low, he promises, “’M not going anywhere.”_

_From this distance, he can see the light shimmer tellingly across Steve’s irises. Steve blinks hard and pulls back, and Bucky lets him._

_“God.” Steve shakes his head. “How are you always so...”_

_“Devilishly handsome?” Bucky offers._

_Steve barks a laugh, then another, and then he seems helpless to it as he guffaws, borderline hysterical, his whole body heaving, hand pressed helplessly to his chest._

_He looks up at Bucky, still smiling, eyes still too bright. “Yeah, Buck.”_

_Pieces of the image fade—the mirror, Steve’s small body—but_ the smile stays. Steve—the taller Steve, Steve-in-the-21st-century—looks at Bucky and positively _glows,_ for all the world like Bucky’s just handed him the moon.

Still smiling, eyes still too bright, Steve says, “Yeah, Buck. You really are.”

Bucky stares at that smile, and something in his chest lurches.

**Then what’re we waitin’ for?**

“Whaddya say we go join the party upstairs?” Bucky suggests, so out of his body it feels as though someone else is saying the words.

“Sure,” says Steve, still smiling like heartbreak. “Sounds good.”

Steve climbs to his feet, offers Bucky his hand. Bucky takes it, his hair standing on end at the contact. He follows Steve to the door, and as he leans down to pick up the two unopened beers on his way out, he thinks feebly, _Goddamn hot people._

 

* * *

 

**Do you trust me?**

_Flashes. Fists; concrete; the stubborn set of a jaw. Bloody knuckles... an arm that bends a little wrong. Blazing blue eyes._

_Bucky kneels in front of a scrawny blond who’s curled up on the pavement, desperately trying to pretend he wasn’t just kicked in the stomach. Bucky touches that kid’s shoulder more gently than he’s ever touched anything, as gentle as his ma used to be with him when he got hurt; Bucky’s gentle, not because he thinks the boy will break, but because he gets the feeling this boy might break him._

_The kid shies away from his touch. Bucky rolls his eyes._

_“C’mon,” he says. “If I wanted to hurt you, I woulda left you to get beat. But I didn’t, did I? So lemme help you.”_

_The boy looks from Bucky’s hand, still reaching for him, to his face. Bucky has no idea what expression he’s got on, but it makes the kid’s shoulders start to relax._

_Bucky grins._

_“Do you trust me?”_

_The kid’s face falls open like a book, and then a wind kicks up, and the pages flip almost to the end. The kid’s older now, bigger, a man, teetering at the edge of the world; he’s just dropped something unimaginably heavy into the water._

**I’m not gonna—**

_Tires screaming; metal crumpling; the sickening crunch of bone and glass. The wind blows two books closed, and all the lights go out._

_“Howard—Maria—? Howard, oh my god—”_

_The lights come up. Another car has come to a stop beside the wreckage of the first, and a woman has tumbled out of it. She runs toward the blood, the metal, the bodies. Her hand flutters over the tattered fender, eyes sharp and bright, calculating as she looks at the car and then empty, horrified, as she looks through the fractured windshield. The Winter Soldier hangs from the side of the bridge and watches._

_“Christ, oh, Christ, what the hell—” She’s shivering, wavering, reaching out, backing away. The Winter Soldier thinks he’s seen her before. “Jarvis! Jarvis, get help, now!”_

_A man stands with his hand still on the driver’s side door of the second car. His knuckles are almost as white as his face. He’s not breathing._

_“Jarvis, please, they’re—fuck. Fuck! I’m sorry... I’m so sorry. They’re gone.”_

_The woman turns white. The man vomits._

_The Soldier’s heart stops. “Peg—”_

**I might, when this is all over, go dancing.**

_He loses his grip on the bridge._

**—fight you. You’re my friend.**

_He’s pulled out of the water, barely breathing, by icy hands._

**Do you trust me?**

_He knows—he remembers—he’s seizing. They knock him out._

**Bucky! NO!**

He jolts awake. He’s lying still as a rock on his back in the bed Tony Stark gave him. No sweat, no tears, no blood, no screams; just his heart, beating its way out of his chest.

“Bucky... _Bucky_...”

He sits up slowly, though there’s not so much as a quiver in the tips of his toes.

“No... Bucky, no...”

The sound of sobbing drifts through the crack in his door. He’s up in less than a heartbeat, silent as a shadow as he slips down the hall.

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs as he enters Steve’s room. His voice rasps; he clears his throat, tries again. “Steve, wake up. _Steve.”_

Steve’s not listening. He’s lying stiff as a board on his back, face all twisted up, skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat; he’s muttering Bucky’s name over and over again, a wretched litany.

“C’mon, Stevie. Come back to me.” Bucky sits with his leg folded beneath him on the edge of Steve’s bed, reaches out with a flesh hand and shakes Steve. When there’s no response, he moves closer, puts both hands on his fitful friend, rubs his chest and smoothes his hair and starts absently humming a tune he can’t quite place. When Steve’s breathing starts to slow, Bucky realizes it’s something he heard Steve’s ma sing to him once when he was sick, a lifetime ago.

“That’s it,” croons Bucky when Steve’s chest starts to rise and fall with his deep, heavy breaths. “That’s it. Come on, come back to me. Come back to me.”

“Bucky...”

Steve’s eyes are open now. They’re gray in the semi-darkness, glistening in the light that bleeds in through the window.

 _“Bucky.”_ And he chokes on it this time, scrambling up and planting himself right in Bucky’s space, hand stuttering out and wrapping so tight around Bucky’s flesh wrist he wonders if it’ll break. Steve buries his face in Bucky’s collarbone, breathing hard, and as his breath tickles the skin there, Bucky suppresses a shiver.

“I couldn’t hear you,” Steve’s saying, a shaky hiss. His fingers knead the skin of Bucky’s wrist, stopping at his pulse and just holding there, pressing there, feeling out the rhythm, and Bucky knows Steve’s trying to remind himself that this is evidence of life.

“I couldn’t hear you anymore,” he says again, quicker, quieter. “You were screaming, and then you weren’t, you were gone, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t hear—”

“Shhhh,” Bucky says, at a loss. “It’s okay. Steve, it’s _okay.”_

“No, it’s not.” Firmer now. Steve sits up straight and pins Bucky with his stare, and his eyes are frightfully clear. “It’s not okay, Buck, and it never was.”

Bucky takes in the hard light in Steve’s eye, the stubborn set of his jaw. He takes a deep breath. _Okay._

“It’s not okay,” Steve whispers, reclaiming his hand from Bucky’s arm and tangling fingers in the sheets instead. “I brought you there. It was my fault... It was my fault you...” He screws his eyes shut.

Bucky wrenches the bedspread out of Steve’s white-knuckled grip, puts his own hand in Steve’s. He reaches out and spreads a metal palm across the side of Steve’s neck, tilting his head up gently. Steve meets his eye.

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky says, voice light. He rubs soothing circles through Steve’s hairline with his thumb. “Credit where credit’s due. You didn’t make me do anything—I _wanted_ to be there.”

“You didn’t want to get drafted,” says Steve bitterly.

“I wanted to be with _you.”_ His hand tightens around Steve’s. “Everything I ever did, I did for you. I didn’t want to go to war because you needed me in New York; then you were at the front, and I needed to be there, too. Don’t you get it yet, Steve?”

Bucky’s throat closes up. _Too much. That’s too much._

Steve breaks eye contact, looks down at his and Bucky’s hands where they’re intertwined. “It’s still my fault, then,” he says quietly.

Bucky groans, and a sliver of it’s guilty relief. “Ninety-six years old, and he still hasn’t learned how to take the world off his shoulders,” he says, mock-irritated. Steve smiles a little in spite of himself. Point Bucky.

Bringing his other hand up to rest on Steve’s neck with the first, Bucky makes Steve look at him again. “You listen to me, mister,” he says sternly, imitating Mrs. Greenwald, who lived down the hall from Steve’s ma. Steve laughs, and Bucky wants to bury himself in the sound.

“Listen,” he says again, softer. “It was my choice. Okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

Steve starts to shake his head. “Bucky—”

“No.” He shifts on the bed so he’s on his knees, facing Steve head-on. “Steve. _It was my choice._ And y’know what? It’s been a shit ride from there to here, but I’d do it all over again, because you’re here, and I’m here, and I don’t regret a thing.”

Steve looks like he’s stopped breathing. “You don’t mean that.”

A pause, miniscule, negligible, and Bucky nods. “I do.”

Steve takes a shaky breath and hangs his head, and they’re close enough that his forehead rests on Bucky’s shoulder. The words vibrate in Bucky’s skin (and further, deeper, everywhere) when he says, “But, Buck. We _failed.”_ His hands find Bucky’s hips, and Bucky feels his fingers digging in there. “You _died._ We _both_ died. And y’know, the last comfort I had when I went under was that at least we left the world better than we found it. That we did some good, that we made things better for the people we left behind. But that’s not what happened. Everything’s still... it’s still...”

His breathing’s gone ragged again. Bucky rubs his back, waits for him to pull himself together.

“That’s what Fury wanted to talk to me about,” Steve says finally. “After everything—losing you, crashing a plane, dismantling SHIELD... after all that, HYDRA’s still out there. Fury said he’s done all he can on his own, and now he wants our help to take ‘em out.”

His fingernails are gonna leave marks on Bucky’s hips. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

“They’re still _here,_ Buck,” Steve hisses, “and they got to you. I can’t _believe_ I... They got to _you._ They did such awful things to you, made _you_ do awful things, and you can pretend all you want that it doesn’t affect you, but I know I’m not the only one who gets nightmares.”

Bucky stays silent.

Steve sighs. “It just... it just seems like the further we get in this world, the more we lose, and the less we can do about it. I’m tryin’ to stay strong,” he says, small, “but honestly... honestly, I think maybe I’ve forgotten how. Or the way being strong worked in the ‘40s doesn’t work anymore, or something. I feel like I’m speaking a language nobody else understands, and I just don’t know what to do. I’m starting to think maybe I can’t stop bad things from happening. I couldn’t with you, could I? Maybe what I want—for me, for you, for the world—just isn’t realistic. Maybe HYDRA’s here to stay, and I’m the one who’s overstayed my welcome.”

Bucky can’t stop himself. He chuckles, shakes his head, and Steve sits up, startled.

The smile that breaks across Bucky’s face is warm and happy. This is so familiar to him— _familiar,_ all of it, and he just runs flesh fingers through Steve’s hair and lets the light brimming in his chest spill over.

“Still singin’ the same old tune, Rogers,” Bucky says fondly, and looks Steve straight in the eye. “You wanna know something? You never spoke a language that made sense to anybody but you. Maybe you feel like it was easier in the ‘40s, but lemme tell you, we’ve had a thousand conversations just like this—you were small, you were big, you were beaten up or perfectly whole, and it was always the same. You were always workin’ against the dark, workin’ towards a light nobody else could see. Thing is, we needed that.”

Bucky looks down, suddenly unable to maintain eye contact. He speaks to Steve’s chest when he says, “I needed it. Needed you.”

He thinks for a second, and then he smiles. “Do you know, I never would have found my courage if it wasn’t for you. You showed me what it was like to be happy. Really happy. You gave me somethin’ to fight for.” A deep breath, and he meets Steve’s eye again. “That’s important, Steve. _You’re_ important. And y’know what I think?”

Steve looks completely floored, but he manages to answer, so quiet Bucky almost has to lean in to hear it. “What do you think, Buck?”

Bucky’s smile widens. “I think the world has always needed you,” he says gently, heart in his throat, “and it always will. You make people want to be better. That’s worth something.”

He takes Steve’s face in his hands, runs his thumbs over Steve’s cheekbones. Steve’s eyes fall shut.

“Things got pretty dark for us there, didn’t they?” Bucky whispers. If he spoke any louder, he’s sure his voice would tremble. “But I know you, and I know you won’t take that for an answer. The world ain’t over, long as you’ve got a say in it.”

He presses his forehead to Steve’s. Breathes deep.

“And all that pain...” Bucky has to force the words out now. “...all the grief, all the heartbreak... That’s not the answer for us, either. You’ve had your say, and now here’s mine: we’re not finished yet, Rogers. Not by a long shot.”

Bucky counts three long breaths before Steve opens his eyes. Then Steve just looks at him. Studies him, catalogues him, takes him in and takes him apart all at once. Bucky shivers.

It breaks Steve out of his reverie. “What did I ever do without you?” he asks, reverent.

Bucky leans back, reclaims his hands (shaking now, but faintly, faintly enough that he thinks Steve won’t notice), and adopts a haughty expression. “Clearly nothing good. You’re useless without me.”

Steve laughs again, and god, does it fill Bucky up.

“Stay with me?” Steve asks.

Bucky doesn’t even think about it.

“Yeah, Steve. Of course.” _Always._

Steve lies down, and Bucky lies next to him, calling upon every power at his command to hide the tremors that have taken root in his bones. He watches the way Steve’s eyes glitter in spite of the dark— _Second star to the right,_ he thinks, _and straight on till morning._

_Neverland._

Steve closes his eyes. Bucky doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s sitting in front of a piano in one of the rec rooms when the first gray light of day cracks over the New York skyline.

He laid in that bed that wasn’t his and watched Steve sleep for as long as he could reasonably justify. Then he laid there a while longer. But the all-too-familiar feeling that his regard was somewhat less than welcome crept up over Bucky eventually, so he made use of his equally unwelcome skills as a phantom-come-assassin to slip away without waking his friend. (From the sounds that drift in from Steve’s room most nights, Bucky figured he could use the rest.)

He wandered aimlessly through the inky shadows of a building that, like the city it stands in, never quite seems to sleep. Without really meaning to, he ended up here, before an instrument just as old and stoic and immobile as himself, eighty-eight colorless keys gleaming beneath his still fingers.

It’s about twenty minutes after the first cringe of day when Bucky finally plays a note. It strikes the silence like a drop of rain on dry pavement, and then fades like nighttime dew into the dawn; at the very moment when the absence of that sound starts to ache in Bucky’s chest almost as strongly as the sound itself, he strikes another note, a minor third above the first, a second drop of rain. It’s the beginning of a summer squall—not the way rain starts in the movies, with a sudden clap of thunder and an all-at-once deluge, but the way it begins at the end of a scorching season in the city: the clouds slouching in from the east, blotting out the sun, then very reluctantly tearing open, releasing just a drop of their load, another, two more, and easing like a familiar lover into a cascade.

He’s played the piano before, Bucky thinks. Steve’s never mentioned it, and until now Bucky never remembered, but the strokes feel sunken into the muscles of his hands in a way he can’t chalk up to pure instinct. Improvising at first, Bucky soon finds himself tumbling into a half-remembered melody. He doesn’t know the name of the song, or the person who wrote it; he doesn’t know where it comes from or when; all he knows is the way it feels, first in his hands, then in his ears, then in his chest. Slow. Rhythmic. Half-frozen, with an inconceivable amount of force mounting against it from below. The same way his blood flows, Bucky decides.

He’s partway through his icy tune, still trying to place it, when the elevator dings softly.

Footsteps punctuate the gentle crest of the song’s final crescendo. Bucky doesn’t rush it, letting the music build unselfconsciously into a series of bombastic chords before pulling back, and back, and back, and away.

The song ends. The silence, well-earned, yawns in its wake.

“...Huh,” says Natasha behind him.

Bucky reclaims his hands from the keys. “Yeah.” He stares at his fingers like they belong to someone else.

“Have you ever...?”

Bucky closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

The words hang.

The silence resonates like it’s a decibel away from breaking, but Natasha doesn’t say anything. She lets a few moments pass, then crosses to Bucky, nudging his shoulder till he scoots over on the bench. When he does, she sits beside him, graceful as a whisper, and puts her hands to the keys.

She plays. The piece is slow and steady and sad, the way Bucky’s was, but hearing it funneled through someone else’s fingers makes something in Bucky’s brain click. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the snowy cityscape outside, of the cold air seeping through the flimsy windowpane, and it’s familiar; for an instant, he thinks he’s twenty years ago and halfway across the world.

The warmth of her is oddly familiar, too. Not the physical warmth, locked along the line of Bucky’s side—or, not just that. It’s something deeper, an ember that rolled out of the fire pit when the water came and still stubbornly clings to life. She keeps it buried beneath layers of subterfuge and misdirection, but Bucky knows it’s there. It hums at the same frequency as the thing he’s got buried in his own chest.

Bucky contents himself to listen for a spell, slipping effortlessly down into a sound that seems to capture so many of his innermost shadows. After a little while, though, he brings his own hands back to the keys, and together, Bucky and Natasha build themselves a ladder out of the dark.

The scene has devolved into a “Chopsticks” war by the time Sam finds them.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam groans as he enters the room. “Is this what they teach you in spy school?”

“They also taught us ‘Hot Cross Buns,’” says Natasha, elbowing Bucky— _hard,_ dammit—in an attempt to make him screw up. (It doesn’t work. Hah.)

“Sometimes I wonder why everyone’s so afraid of you.”

Natasha, hands not slowing a whit, turns and levels a cold stare at Sam.

“Oh, right,” says Sam. “That’s why.” Bucky thinks his voice sounds a bit higher than usual.

Bucky and Natasha reach the end of the song and, in unison, lift their hands to start again. Sam dives down to block the keys with his arms.

“That’s enough of that, I think,” he says dryly.

Bucky looks from Sam to Nat. Nat looks back at Bucky, a twinkle in her eye.

“Oh, no... Oh, no. Come on now, what’re you— _shit!”_

Sam squeals and flails, a cacophany rising up from the piano as he strikes the keys with elbows, hips, feet, struggling to get away from Bucky and Natasha’s tickling fingers. He falls to the floor in a heap, laughing and squirming, and the two assassins follow him down, relentless.

“Guys, _guys,_ this so isn’t— _aah!_ —this is _so_ not fair! No, _no,_ ah, god—cut it— _Jesus,_ cut it out!”

“Sam, is that you?”

Footsteps echo down the hall, getting closer. They end on a surprised huff of laughter.

“Guys... guys.” An extra pair of hands appears suddenly in the pile of bodies. Steve’s struggling to extract Sam, but can’t stop laughing long enough to get a good grip. “Come on, guys, have some mercy.”

“No mercy,” Bucky intones.

“No surrender,” Natasha returns.

“I surrender. I surrender!”

Sam scrambles out from under Bucky and Nat, aided by Steve. He brushes himself off indignantly.

“And to think I was gonna invite the two of you up for breakfast.” Sam clucks, shakes his head.

“Ooh, no breakfast? That’s harsh.” Steve shakes his head, too, but he’s still grinning. Guy can’t turn the damn thing off. Makes Bucky a little wibbly.

“Tickles do not deserve to be rewarded. Certainly not with delicious food. Good luck scavenging today, you guys.”

Sam turns to leave. Steve, smiling and shaking his head, goes to follow him.

“No. No, you don’t mean that,” says Bucky, disbelieving.

“Friends don’t let friends starve!” Natasha calls to their retreating backs.

“They also don’t tickle each other to death!” Sam calls back.

“Yes they do! That’s exactly what friends do!”

Sam and Steve just wave from the elevator as the doors slide shut.

They lock Bucky and Nat out of the floor. That doesn’t stop them, of course—the lethal duo get off the elevator one floor up and climb down to a window, which Bucky then jimmies open. When he and Natasha slip through, they’re ambushed by Steve and Sam, who make quick work of enacting Sam’s tickle-revenge. Bucky’s abs and face hurt from laughing by the time Sam finally seems satisfied.

“Alright, alright,” he says, helping Bucky up. “We’re even.”

“Food now?” Natasha asks, hopeful.

“Food now,” Sam replies.

On his way into the kitchen behind Sam and Nat, Bucky darts out a hand and prods Steve in the side, where he knows he’s hellishly ticklish. Steve jumps.

Bucky leans in close and whispers, “Got off easy this time, Rogers. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Oh, you really wanna start this?” Steve’s fingers flutter at Bucky’s nape, and Bucky twitches. His heart rate picks up. “I know all your weaknesses, Barnes.”

Reluctantly, Bucky removes his hand from Steve’s waist.

“This isn’t over,” he mutters darkly.

And it isn’t. Bucky never does get the chance to get his own tickle-revenge on Steve, but they’re almost done with breakfast—with only minor sacrifices made, this time, for the sake of projectile food warfare—when the door opens on another avenue of revenge.

It starts with a little embarrassment on Bucky’s part, though.

“This guy, a dancer?” Sam’s staring at Bucky in disbelief.

“Oh, god, yeah.” Steve grins. “You used to love dragging me out to the dance halls on Saturday nights, didn’t you, Buck?”

“He’s got the music in him,” Nat deadpans. Bucky tries to kick her under the table, but misses and hits Sam instead.

“Ow! Hey!” Sam rubs his leg, pouting. “Y’know what, just for that, I think I’m gonna need to see those fancy feet in action.”

Bucky looks around the table. Sam, Nat, and Steve are all watching him, expectant.

“No,” he says, belatedly. “No. No way.”

“Aw, Buck, c’mon. You can’t be that rusty.”

Bucky zeroes in on a smiling Steve.

“Was that a metal arm pun, Steve? Did you just _metal arm pun_ me?”

Steve’s grin widens.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Y’know what, fine. I’ll do it. On one condition: Steve’s gotta do it, too.”

The grin slides right off Steve’s face.

“Deal!” yells Sam. “Aw, man, this oughta be good.”

“Bucky. You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am.” Bucky lowers his voice threateningly. “That’s right, Rogers. You’re gonna get yours.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Steve protests.

“Survey says—nope, totally fair,” says Nat. “You did escape tickles, after all.”

“Hey, you’re right!” says Sam. “Better put on your dancing shoes, Cap. You ain’t gettin’ outta this one.”

“Shit.”

Breakfast is quickly polished off, plates and utensils abandoned as the four of them move into the living room. Reticent though he is to fulfill his punishment, Steve still lets himself get roped into moving furniture out of the way. Bucky goes over to the stereo and flips through the adjacent stack of records till he finds something with some energy to it, Sam groaning appreciatively when it starts to play, and before the last armchair is even out of the way, Natasha grabs Bucky by the hand and drags him into the center of the room.

She pulls him into a Lindy Hop, and Bucky falls into the steps like they were custom-made for him. It’s the whole nine, too, complete with swinging and tapping and tossing, and Steve starts to look a little queasy about thirty seconds in, which makes Bucky bust out laughing. Natasha smiles back at him, and he wonders how she knows the steps, but even more, why he’s not surprised she does.

She sees the question in his face, and tells him, “I used to be a ballerina.”

“I know,” Bucky says, startling himself. Startling Natasha, too—she shoots him a funny look, but doesn’t say anything more.

The song winds down, and Bucky effortlessly swings Nat once more around his shoulders and then sets her down again so they can both take a bow. Steve and Sam burst into applause.

“Y’all were crazy back in the day, weren’t you?” says Sam, looking between Bucky and Steve.

“You didn’t know that already?” Bucky retorts, breathing hard and grinning.

Bucky then turns to Steve, who’s shifting nervously and eyeing the makeshift dance floor like it’ll bite his ankles if he gets any closer. Wordlessly, Natasha removes herself from the floor, plunking down on one of the abandoned couches and watching with a smirk as Bucky approaches Steve.

“Y’know, I still don’t know how to dance,” Steve mumbles. He smiles, and it’s tinged with a sadness Bucky doesn’t really understand.

Bucky just smiles back, offers Steve his hand. “I’ll show you how.”

The light glints weirdly across Steve’s eyes at that. Bucky hardly has time to process it before Steve’s fingers clasp around his own. He leaves it alone.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky calls. “How about something with a little swing?”

“You got it.”

A few seconds, and then enter the horns.

_Of all the boys I’ve known—and I’ve known some—until I first met you, I was lonesome..._

The breath leaves Bucky’s lungs on a whispered curse. For a second, he smells sweat and cigarette smoke, feels the prickly warmth of incandescent lights on his skin, shivers against the bite of the winter wind blowing in through an open door.

_...And when you came in sight, dear, my heart grew light, and this old world seemed new to me._

“Good song,” is all Bucky can bring himself to say. Across the room, Sam beams.

Shaking himself, Bucky drags a petrified Steve into the middle of the floor.

“Okay. I’m gonna show you a basic foxtrot. This one’s real easy—shouldn’t have any trouble. Got it?”

“Yeah, alright,” Steve says, voice small, and Bucky just wants to laugh, because—Christ, because this guy can do _gymnastics,_ and he’s been in _knife fights_ and _gun fights_ and he fought in a war and died and came back and then took down an entire army of actual space aliens _and_ a huge-ass corrupt intelligence organization, and he’s nervous about _this_. Bucky doesn’t laugh—Steve looks worried enough already without Bucky making it worse—but it’s a close thing.

 _God,_ he thinks, reverent and relieved and a little scared himself, _he hasn’t changed a bit._

“Alright, Stevie. Goes like this.”

They learn the foxtrot, and after that, the Charleston. At first, Steve is kind of a klutz, but mostly Bucky thinks he’s just embarrassed. He should’ve learned this ages ago, after all (Bucky should have taught him), and doing it now seems to turn Steve back into his twenty-year-old self, both in the way that he’s somehow sprouted a third foot, and in the way the wrinkles have miraculously disappeared from his forehead, his eyes lighting right up as he laughs.

Bucky’s honestly a little relieved—with the spotlight on Steve, it’s easy for Bucky to blame all the clumsiness on him. After all, who could say from looking at them that their feet just tangled together not because Steve stepped the wrong way, but because Bucky made the mistake of watching Steve’s face as he smiled, and for a second forgot how to breathe?

Actually, Natasha probably could. Bucky catches her watching him shrewdly, a smirk tugging at her lips, after more than one stumble.

And Bucky thinks Sam probably sees it too. Or maybe the guy’s just sadistic, because at almost the exact moment Steve’s _extensive_ physical training finally kicks in and he finishes the whole sequence of Charleston moves Bucky showed him without stumbling once—and then causes Bucky’s pulse to spike with a shock of crystalline laughter—the music changes. Bucky has about three milliseconds to dart a glance at Sam, who’s standing by the stereo and grinning this grin that’s downright _evil,_ before the slow tempo of the new song sets in.

Steve starts when he hears it. “Have you been going through my music, Sam?”

“Maybe a little. Had to make sure you were on the right track.”

“No pun intended?”

“Oh my _god.”_

It’s like an electric current skitters over Bucky’s skin, from his head to his toes. He hazards a glance at Steve and finds him looking right back, eyes sparkling, his earlier nerves nowhere in sight.

Steve extends his hand.

“May I?” he asks. Bucky gulps.

_Never thought that you would be, standing here so close to me..._

He wants to say no. A large part of him is dead convinced that he _should_ say no, because taking advantage of this (a dream, surely; a mirage; an image planted in his head by Pierce to satisfy the parts of him that refuse to be erased) would be taking advantage of Steve, in the worst possible way. He has no idea how much Bucky _wants_ this. Has wanted it. Always did.

But Steve’s got this light in his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching up just barely, hand out and arms open in invitation. He looks _happy,_ like there’s nothing he’d like better than for Bucky to take his hand—and he looks vulnerable, too, like there’s nothing he fears more than for Bucky to step away.

... _there’s so much I feel that I should say..._

As Bucky stares at his oldest, closest friend, a sinking, exhilarating sort of hopelessness settles in his belly, because of course he can’t say no. He’d follow this man anywhere. He’d follow him to the edge of the world, to the very brink of everything, and then over, into oblivion. Hell, he did that already. And then he followed him all the way back.

Right now, Steve’s only asking him for a dance. Small potatoes, when you think about it.

Bucky should have realized what he was getting himself into.

_...but words can wait until some other day._

Shaking, Bucky takes Steve’s hand. The smile it earns him stops his heart.

_Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again._

“Better not step on my toes this time, Rogers,” he mumbles, face hot.

_It’s been a long, long time._

It takes them some time to fall into a rhythm. When they do, it’s nothing fancy. Their feet barely even move; it’s mostly in the hips, swaying softly in time with the music.

_Haven’t felt like this, my dear, since can’t remember when._

But Bucky’s got his arms around Steve’s neck, and Steve holds him so close, presses his palms so gently to Bucky’s hips, massages these soft little circles there with his thumbs as he looks at Bucky with so much warmth in his eyes... It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect.

_It’s been a long, long time._

“See?” Bucky says, breathless. “Easy as breathing.”

Steve smiles at him, and Bucky can feel himself shattering.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “It is.”

_You’ll never know how many dreams I dream about you..._

Bucky can’t maintain eye contact long after that. Steve’s just so... relaxed, and comfortable, and happy in that muted way that’s most elusive and most terrifying.

... _or just how empty they all seem without you..._

His eyes are bright and clear, shining this refractory sort of gray, like the sea throwing the rainclouds’ color back at them. Bucky could get lost here, he knows, just as he knows he shouldn’t, and can’t. It would be a trespass.

_...so kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again..._

After a few moments of struggle, it’s both much too easy and much too hard for Bucky to tear his eyes away from Steve’s, leaning forward so he’s not quite resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, but Steve’s eyes are lost in his peripheral vision.

_...it’s been a long, long time._

The music, as though trying to wear down Bucky’s last defense, fades into something more delicate. An inhumanly delicious heat radiates from Steve’s chest, and from his hands, still on Bucky’s hips, and now that he’s avoiding Steve’s gaze, Bucky finds that Steve’s warmth is the thing he has to fend off. The physical sensation is punctuated by these low, absent humming noises Steve keeps making, and Bucky just wants to sink into it, into _him,_ a centuries-old glacier finally staring into the sun long enough to melt.

That feeling, that need, rises up his throat, and Bucky honestly can’t tell whether he’s about to throw up or burst into tears or just say something he really shouldn’t. He chokes it down, and it hurts. God, it hurts.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs in Bucky’s ear, and his voice is so damn full of concern. Bucky’s eyes sting. “Hey, Bucky, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”

Steve’s hands slide up Bucky’s ribs as he tries to pull back, look Bucky in the eye, but if the feeling of Steve’s hands on him was too much, the feeling of them _moving_ against his skin like that makes Bucky’s whole body go rigid.

“Bucky?” Steve’s really worried now.

Jerkily, Bucky unlocks his arms from around Steve, yanks himself out of Steve’s grip.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, not meeting Steve’s eye as he backs away.

“Wait a minute—where are yo—Bucky!”

Bucky doesn’t look at Natasha or Sam as he rushes toward the door. He can feel the weight of their concern crawling on the back of his neck.

He makes it into the hall, but as soon as Bucky realizes that the next logical step is a long, slow ride in the elevator, his stomach churns.

“Bucky. _Bucky._ Hey.” And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky recoils. In the corner of his eye, he sees Steve’s face fall. “Bucky, it’s okay—it’s just me.” His voice is soft, like a bruise.

Bucky laughs, short and sharp and just a little bit hysterical. “I know it’s you,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

“Bucky.” And, great, now he sounds like a kicked puppy, and Bucky hates himself that much more.

He steps out of Steve’s reach. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says, again, and it’s the only thing he knows how to say anymore, and it’s not nearly enough. Steve’s face has fallen open like he’s had his heart scooped out and tossed into traffic.

Bucky can’t look. He turns away, rounding a corner until Steve can’t see him anymore, and then he passes the elevator by altogether as he throws open the nearest window and slips out into the cold winter sun.

 

* * *

 

**You know me.**

He ends up on the Brooklyn Bridge. It seems like he just blinks and finds himself at the foot of it, staring across at a bastardized version of the borough he used to call home. Feeling about half a second out of phase with his own limbs, Bucky walks until he thinks he’s reached the halfway point, then stops and leans over the icy railing, looking one moment back at the life he used to have, and the next in the other direction, at the life he’s still struggling to fit himself into.

**Bucky... You’ve known me your whole life.**

The people continually crunching by behind him on the snow-covered pedestrian walkway start to grate on his nerves, like sandpaper dragged over the bare endings. Finally, after what he thinks might be twenty minutes (but could also be a couple hours), Bucky waits until no one’s looking and then hoists himself up over the side of the bridge, climbing down into the underbelly and nestling in the crook of two steel beams. As he sits there, his limbs growing cold and stiff, he finds himself looking down at the water beneath him; it’s a different river, but to some distant part of him, it feels the same. He feels like there’s something beneath its distant surface that he needs to find, a body drifting slowly down to the riverbed that, if only he can rescue it, will give him back all that he’s lost.

**Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.**

Of course, even if it could, Bucky hasn’t just lost things—he’s gained things, too. Terrible things. Toxic things. One good deed would never be enough to scrub him clean.

**I’m not gonna fight you.**

He watches the sun go down, and the city lights flicker into life. There’s a red-orange warmth to the city at night that even the passage of time can’t snuff out, and as Bucky watches it rise up against the dusk, he feels himself ever-so-slowly settling back into his bones. He becomes hyperaware of the chill on his uncovered skin, supersoldier-heated but not immune to the cold; bouyed up on the city’s soft glow, he emerges slowly from the fog of his anxiety and remembers for the thousandth time (possibly the thousandth time just today) how to be human. He wonders how many hours it’s been, how worried Steve and the others must be by now. He realizes how futile it is to keep trying to run like this—because even if he hasn’t figured out how to piece together a whole person from the scraps HYDRA left of him, and even if he hasn’t figured out how to reconcile the newer, darker pieces with the parts he once knew, and even if he hasn’t figured out how to fit the wretched mess of his new self into the life he’s been given, he can’t escape it, either. Life. It follows him.

**Then finish it...**

Bucky stares out into the misty lights of Manhattan, jaw clenched, mind buzzing. The present, like the past, can’t be erased. At least, not unless Bucky’s willing to erase himself, and as afraid as Bucky is of the things he’s done, the things he could still do, he understands, suddenly, that he’s not willing to relinquish what little of himself he’s managed to reclaim. It’s selfish, and Bucky hates himself a little for it, but he can’t bring himself to let go. Sam, he thinks, would probably call this progress.

... **‘cause I’m with you till the end of the line.**

His metal arm has sprouted a thin layer of ice by the time Bucky finally makes up his mind.

He slips silently back into the tower by the same window through which he left, the silky-sharp smell of impending snow clinging to his skin. Rounding the corner, he finds the living room on his and Steve’s floor exactly the same as he left it, only Nat and Sam are long gone. Steve sits alone in the center of a couch that’s been pushed against the far wall. He’s staring at the floor, wringing his hands.

Bucky allows his next footfall to make a tiny noise. Steve, hearing it, straightens sharply.

The tension visibly rushes out of him.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes. “Thank god.”

Bucky manages a stiff nod, but doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Steve, every muscle in his body pulled taut. Part of him wants to run away again.

Steve’s face falls.

“Come back to me, Bucky,” he says quietly. Begs. “Come home.”

Bucky’s eyes prickle. He blinks fast, averts his gaze.

Silence. Two sets of lungs, breathing.

After an interminable span, Bucky can’t stop himself from looking at Steve again. He’s just sitting there, tense, waiting. He looks strangely small for a 230-pound supersoldier.

Bucky’s stomach ties itself in knots. He’s ten feet away from Steve, and he feels like he’s been ten feet away from Steve his whole goddamn life, and in that moment, he just can’t do it anymore.

His feet start moving almost without his permission; Bucky passes through long columns of shifting city lights, closes the distance, stops when his knees knock with Steve’s. A metal finger ghosts along Steve’s throat, ends up beneath his chin.

“Say no,” Bucky whispers. His eyes are stuck on Steve’s lips—his damn full, red lips, better than any dame’s—but he drags them up to meet Steve’s eyes. They’re wide and earnest and so fucking blue. Full, too, of something Bucky can’t name. But it isn’t ‘no’.

Bucky kisses him.

He tries to be gentle, he really does. It’s barely a kiss at all, his lips brushing Steve’s light enough to tickle. He’s holding his breath until Steve’s chin lifts away from his finger, Steve making this tiny, helpless noise as he presses up into Bucky’s lips, and then the air rushes out of Bucky and mingles with the air out of Steve, warm and wet and too-quick, and Bucky’s hands end up on either side of Steve’s face, the tips of his fingers scritching in the hairs at Steve’s nape. He feels it when Steve’s hand drifts up to lock fingers around his flesh wrist, hears himself gasp when Steve’s lips fall open against his own, and _Jesus Christ, he is kissing Steve Rogers._

Or, more accurately, Steve Rogers is kissing him, and damn if that isn’t the best thought Bucky’s never dared to have. Steve’s fingers tighten around Bucky’s wrist, hard enough almost to bruise, and his other hand slides up Bucky’s thigh, over his hip, finds his waist and then yanks Bucky down so he lands in a heap in Steve’s lap, and Bucky can’t help the surprised laugh that bubbles out of him then. Steve swallows that up, and Bucky swallows up a litany of his own name breathed through Steve’s lips like a prayer, wedged between quick pecks and longer presses of Steve’s mouth to Bucky’s own. Bucky can feel his ribs expanding and contracting with his breath as Steve’s hand locks around them and rests there, strokes there, moving in these slow, sure circles that make it hard for Bucky to _keep_ breathing, snagging the hem of his shirt and tugging it up to expose skin and then capturing that in his slow, sure fingers. Bucky melts right into Steve’s grip, just as Steve slips his tongue between Bucky’s lips and then eats up Bucky’s quiet moan.

The sound of his own voice brings Bucky back down to Earth. His lips make a little smacking noise as he tears them away from Steve’s. “Wait, wait, wait,” he pants, then dives down for another kiss, then forces himself to stop. “Stevie,” he starts, and his voice _does not_ crack, “if you’re just doin’ this to keep from hurtin’ my feelings, I swear to fucking god—”

“Jesus— _Bucky.”_ Steve’s hand convulses around Bucky’s flesh wrist, and the other snakes around to the small of Bucky’s back, and Bucky’s not sure how it happens, exactly—he’s an _assassin_ , for Christ’s sake, and he still loses track of the movement in the warm press of Steve’s hands on him—but he’s suddenly on his back on the couch, staring up at his best friend’s smiling face.

“Bucky,” Steve says again. The word’s like a blunt blade, and it carves a gash into Bucky’s belly, only instead of welling up with blood the wound wells up with clean, crisp seawater. Steve’s trying to look condescending, but he just looks stupid happy; for a few moments, all he does is look down and smile a smile Bucky hasn’t seen since 1941. Then he laughs.

“Shut up,” Steve says, and snatches Bucky’s breath away in a kiss that positively burns.

Bucky loses himself in it. In Steve. All the times he’s imagined this (guilty, furtive, stolen moments of secret, doomed affection), and all the times he’s thought about how impossible it was to imagine (something that wasn’t real, could never be real, no matter how many ghosts of sensation Bucky’s mind conjured up), and he’s _still_ shocked at how goddamn good it feels, how intoxicating it is to be surrounded by Steve’s smell, Steve’s warmth, Steve’s laughter (open and honest and freely given and all real, all blessedly real), to be pressed into the couch cushions by all 230 pounds of _this fucking nerd_ and taken apart by nothing more than hands and lips and tongues, both of them still clothed, but more exposed than they’ve ever been before.

**You know me.**

_I do. I know you._

Bucky tangles his fingers in the hair at Steve’s nape and tugs gently till Steve pulls off. And then Bucky just drinks him in—kiss-swollen lips pulled into this tiny, lovely smile, eyes burning like the city lights Bucky fell in love with lifetimes ago—and for the first time in what feels like a hell of a long time, Bucky smiles. Small at first, then bigger, impossibly wide, the seawater sloshing in his chest, threatening to spill out his eyes. _I love you,_ he doesn’t say; he sends it to his fingers instead, where they’re kneading gentle circles into Steve’s scalp.

“Is this the first time you’ve kissed anyone since 1945?” Bucky asks, suddenly curious. Is Steve just naturally this good at kissing, or has he had practice? Bucky bristles a little at the thought.

Steve groans, giving an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “Why does everyone think that?”

“Because you’re America’s golden boy, and you spend half your time in tights,” Bucky retorts, diving down for Steve’s jaw. (Silently, he admits to himself that the tights, while ostensibly embarrassing, leave shockingly little to even Bucky’s energetic imagination.) “And who’s everyone?”

“I’ll have you know America’s golden boy could get a _lot_ of action if he wanted it. But Captain America doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Bucky’s occupied himself (and maybe, just maybe, hidden his face) trailing kisses down Steve’s jaw, his throat. He stops now at Steve’s pulse, laving his tongue over it, smirking when Steve’s breath hitches; at Steve’s evasion, a sheen of jealousy threatens to burn through Bucky’s euphoria, so he switches tongue for teeth, nipping and sucking and making Steve keen, aiming to leave a mark. He wonders how fast it’ll heal, how fast he’ll have to replace it to fend off anyone else who wants to try something. If he has to, he’ll keep marking Steve up from now into eternity.

“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky purrs, absolutely lethal. “Just tell me: do I need to add anybody to my hit list?”

“I don’t know about any— _ah—_ any hits,” Steve struggles to reply, squirming and arching and melting into Bucky—god, he’s _putty_ in Bucky’s hands, “but I’m sure Natasha would be willing to have a... ci-civilized discussion with you about it. Try anything else and— _ngh_ , Christ—she’ll probably skin you alive.”

Bucky bites back a growl, opting instead to take advantage of Steve’s liquid limbs and flip him, dumping him off the couch and onto the floor. Steve lets out a surprised grunt and a laugh like sunlight. Bucky follows him down, landing ungracefully on top of him and pinning him there.

Straddling Steve’s hips, Bucky leans down, past Steve’s half-stunned, half-beaming face, and rumbles in his ear, “She shoulda known better.” He nips at Steve’s earlobe; Steve arches into him with a moan. Which is when Bucky finally notices how hard he is.

Bucky hums, smirking into Steve’s throat as he grinds down with his hips.

 _“Buck,”_ Steve whimpers. His hands dart up to Bucky’s hips, fingernails digging into them, so much like the night before, but so much better, too.

“How about gettin’ off?” Bucky murmurs, metal hand trailing down Steve’s chest, across his quivering belly, and he can feel every minuscule vibration in Steve’s tight muscles. Thank fuck for technology. “Have you come for anybody since I’ve been gone?”

“ _Fuck..._ ”

Bucky reaches Steve’s fly, flicks it open like it’s nothing. Steve whines.

Steve stops him, though. Brings both hands up to Bucky’s face and tugs him around till their eyes meet again, and Bucky’s stupidly proud of the way Steve’s pupils are blown so wide the blue of his irises has almost disappeared, and a little miffed he’s still coherent.

“You want this?” Steve asks, searching Bucky’s face. “Bucky, if you’re—if you don’t feel—we don’t have to—”

“I want it.” This time, his voice definitely cracks. “Steve. I want it.”

Steve’s lungs empty. “Oh, thank _god.”_

Steve presses into Bucky then with such ferocity that Bucky realizes just how much he’s been holding back—he sits up and crushes his mouth to Bucky’s so fast that Bucky nearly falls out of his lap. Then Steve’s hand splays across Bucky’s spine, pressing him close and holding him there as Steve nips at his lip and then soothes the mark with his tongue, at which point Bucky’s brain completely shorts out.

Steve’s hands drift down to scoop up Bucky’s thighs, and as Steve expertly maneuvers them both off the floor (which is mildly confusing physics-wise and _way too fucking hot_ for Bucky to properly comprehend right now), Bucky finally notices the way he’s clutching at Steve’s hair, like he’ll fall to his death if he lets go. He unwinds his fingers and soothes Steve’s scalp with his fingertips, trying not to give away too much desperation in the tenderness of his kiss.

Steve’s managed to find his feet, gripping Bucky’s ass so Bucky can keep his legs wrapped around Steve’s waist, and now he’s walking them both toward the closest bedroom—Steve’s, Bucky thinks. He clumsily but successfully navigates around the rearranged furniture and into the hallway, but miscalculates on the way through the bedroom door; Bucky’s back rams into the doorjamb and the air leaves his lungs on a laugh, only to skitter back in on a broken gasp as Steve’s hips grind into his. Steve groans into Bucky’s mouth, pulls back a bit, and presses in again with another, louder groan, ragged and desperate.

“Steve...” Bucky hisses, ravishing Steve’s bottom lip between his teeth as he digs his heels into Steve’s thighs, pressing their cocks flush together again. Steve makes this noise in the back of his throat at that, and it shoots straight down Bucky’s spine. He smirks against Steve’s mouth.

“Love the way you sound...” Bucky murmurs, and it feels like a thank-you, and it feels like a prayer.

“Yeah?” Steve’s fingernails dig into Bucky’s ass through his jeans.

Bucky bites back a moan. “Yeah,” he says, then clamps his mouth around a much more enthusiastic affirmation when Steve wedges a hand between their bodies and presses down on his erection. Steve unbuttons Bucky’s fly with one hand, squeezing his ass with the other and burying these unbearably gentle kisses in his throat. Bucky’s legs are quivering where they’re still wrapped around Steve, the pressure of the wall behind him and Steve’s body in front doing most of the work now of keeping him in place. Steve’s breath is a warm mist on his skin, the heady smell of him all Bucky knows; he can feel his control eroding more and more every second, a building ripped apart at the seams, and when Steve’s thumb grazes the damp tip of his cock through his boxer briefs, Bucky can’t help himself anymore: he groans.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes into his skin. “Yeah, Buck, lemme hear you.”

His fingers graze the length of Bucky, a single smooth motion, and Bucky _keens._ He’s not sure when his hands slid up beneath Steve’s shirt, but now he knows he’s raising hot red streaks down Steve’s back with the fingernails of one hand and the rapidly heating metal plates of the other. Suddenly, he feels _hungry_ —the sound of Steve, the smell of him, the pressure, the bizarrely old-and-new texture of his skin, particularly strange through the new nerves in his metal hand: none of it is enough. He needs to _feel_ Steve. All of him. Right now.

Bucky struggles to drag some blood away from his groin so he can remember what language is. “Clothes,” he finally gasps into Steve’s ear—in English, even—and it feels like more of a victory than it probably should.

“Okay... okay.” Steve’s voice is muffled against Bucky’s skin, the vibration of his words and his low, contented humming ricocheting between both their flush chests as he just keeps kissing Bucky. It takes him a good thirty more seconds to tear himself far enough away that Bucky can find his feet (shakily, to his own mild embarrassment) and so that he can grin at Bucky, the radiance of it absolutely blinding, as he extends his hand. Bucky grins back like an idiot, feeling more grateful and flabbergasted and in love than he can ever remember feeling before; and, doing the only thing he thinks he ever knew how to do, Bucky takes Steve’s hand and allows himself to be led into the bedroom.

The clouds roiling above the city were thick with the promise of snow when Bucky left them. Now, they’re busy fulfilling that promise. As Steve and Bucky move into the bedroom, the shadow of snowfall swirls like static in the long bars of light on the carpet; Bucky’s skin prickles as he pads through it, but maybe that’s just anticipation.

Steve stops at the foot of the bed, the snow painting his skin with mottled streaks of light and dark as he turns to look at Bucky again. Some of the heat has left his gaze, just enough that meeting his eye now makes Bucky feel a little like an exposed nerve. Steve tugs him gently closer, and Bucky goes; Steve kisses him again, but goes in slowly, hands cupping either side of Bucky’s face, the touch of his lips firm but infinitely tender.

When he finally moves back, Steve is the picture of bliss. He lets his fingers trail down the length of Bucky’s torso, Bucky standing stock-still beneath his touch, until he snags the hem of Bucky’s shirt again. This time, he drags it slowly up and over Bucky’s head. When he’s tossed it aside, Steve splays his hands over Bucky’s bare ribs, pulls him close, and gives him a surprisingly chaste kiss on the forehead.

Bucky’s skeleton feels like a struck tuning fork. His eyes fall shut.

Steve’s hands move to Bucky’s hips. He stops.

Bucky opens his eyes.

“Okay?” murmurs Steve.

Deep breath. “Yeah.”

Steve nods, moves in to kiss Bucky again, only now his eyes are dark and half-lidded. He presses his lips to Bucky’s, sliding a hot tongue into Bucky’s mouth at the same time he tugs Bucky forward by the belt loops, smashing their hips together. Bucky’s breath gets short when Steve’s hands move around to his ass, pulling his jeans down a little as they slip inside and squeeze Bucky’s cheeks.

Steve moves on from Bucky’s lips, trailing kisses along his jaw. He’s tonguing the skin beneath Bucky’s earlobe when he starts to pull Bucky’s jeans down further, rumbling as he does, “Okay?”

“God, yes,” Bucky gasps, and he feels it when Steve smirks against his throat. His mouth drifts down; he’s at Bucky’s shoulder now, his clavicle, his chest, worshiping Bucky’s skin in a long line down his torso as his hands slide Bucky’s pants off inch by excruciating inch, Bucky marveling the whole time at how much patience he has, how much control—god, the _muscles_ on him... Steve spends even more time working one of Bucky’s nipples with his tongue, his teeth, until Bucky has to clutch at his shoulders to keep from falling over. This alerts him to the fact that Steve’s still got his fucking shirt on, and there’s a complaint waiting on the tip of his tongue, but Steve’s continued his slow journey down. He’s on his knees now, looking up at Bucky through his lashes, lips curled in this filthy smirk as his head becomes level with the waistband of Bucky’s underwear.

“Okay?” Steve purrs, his breath puffing against the still-clothed head of Bucky’s dick. Bucky’s so far beyond words at this point, all he can do is whimper in response.

Steve chuckles, and Bucky _feels_ it, because Steve’s chosen this exact moment to start mouthing at Bucky’s head. Bucky thinks he chokes out a curse, fingers tangling in Steve’s hair, which is already so sex-rumpled it should be fucking illegal; but then, lingering only another moment or two with his lips brushing Bucky’s cock, Steve makes his way back up—faster than he went down, at least—and Bucky’s hands follow him up.

When he reaches eye level again, Steve kisses Bucky, and Bucky swears to god it tastes like summer. He wraps his arm around Steve’s neck and kisses back with everything he’s got.

Barely a nudge from Steve, and Bucky’s tipping backward, landing with a little _oof_ on the bed. He watches as a grinning Steve gets to his knees again and removes the puddle of Bucky’s jeans from around his ankles, stopping to trail kisses from Bucky’s ankle all the way up to his knee before he straightens and pulls his own shirt gracelessly over his head. Then he knee-walks himself into the space between Bucky’s parted legs—an image that makes Bucky laugh out loud—and, grinning devilishly, leans forward to lay lips and tongue to the tender skin of Bucky’s inner thighs, at which point Bucky stops laughing.

Bucky cries out when Steve starts in with his teeth, eyes rolling back into his head. He’s trying _really_ hard not to move too much, lest he make Steve’s franky sinful job any more difficult—but Steve’s already moving up again, mouthing a long line up Bucky’s dick, his belly, his chest. Resting his knees on the mattress, Steve straddles Bucky, leans down, tilts Bucky’s face up with a warm palm on his cheek.

Steve kisses Bucky, again, like he just can’t help himself.

Bucky grumbles against Steve’s lips. “Pants,” he says, tugging at the offending article with needy hands.

“Alright, alright,” Steve laughs. He gets to his feet again, yanks down his pants, and steps out of them, leaving them behind as he crawls back onto the bed beside Bucky, claiming Bucky’s mouth in a feverish kiss. Bucky pushes back, hard, tangling his tongue with Steve’s and pressing him backward, clambering into his lap.

 _“Stevie,”_ Bucky whines, rocking his hips. He loves the firm thickness of Steve’s thighs beneath him, the friction mounting between their flush cocks, the reckless moan that rips from the back of Steve’s throat as his arm flies around Bucky’s back, his other hand fisted in the sheets, steadying them both.

“Buck—Bucky.” Steve wants to keep kissing him, Bucky knows, but he can’t stop making noise long enough for their lips to reconnect. Bucky doesn’t care—all these delicious sounds are making him painfully hard, and because he’s so desperate for them, he plunges his flesh hand into Steve’s boxer briefs, wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock. Steve cries out, harsh and involuntary, and Bucky devours the sound.

God, but Steve’s dick is beautiful. The weight of it in Bucky’s hand, the silky flesh damp with precome—it’s fucking _perfect._ He strokes it as rough as he dares without any lube, and imagines what it would feel like inside him. The thought alone is so arousing it startles a moan out of Bucky, and to his own ears it sounds like a plea.

“Please tell me you’ve got more than books in that drawer over there,” he grits out. Steve’s fingernails are digging into the small of his back, and it’s making his head feel light.

“I— _yeah,”_ Steve sighs in appreciation of a clever twist of Bucky’s wrist, then visibly struggles to remember what Bucky just said. “Yeah, I—I do. What—”

“I want you to fuck me, Steve,” Bucky hisses against Steve’s lips, and feels Steve’s whole body shudder beneath him.

_“God.”_

Steve’s fingers dive down the back of Bucky’s underwear, cupping Bucky’s ass again and squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Are you sure?” Steve pants, pressing desperate kisses to Bucky’s jaw now. “You really want me to—”

 _“Fuck me,”_ Bucky insists. _“Please._ I’m sure.”

“Christ... _Christ—_ okay.”

Steve kisses Bucky on the lips one more time before dragging himself out from under Bucky’s insistent weight. He scrambles backward until he can reach the drawer in the bedside table, and then he wrenches it open—a bit harder, probably, than he needs to—and fishes around until he comes up with a condom and a small bottle of lube.

Bucky crawls over and climbs back on top of Steve immediately.

“We’re gonna talk about this later,” he says, gesturing at the bottle.

“Noted,” Steve replies, smiling into a kiss.

It’s another few minutes of nothing but heated making out before they finally get the ball rolling again. Steve pulls away first, laughing as he says, “I can’t get you naked like this, Bucky. Have some pity.”

“Who says that’s my problem?” Bucky replies, folding the words into Steve’s shoulder.

 _“Bucky.”_ Steve’s still laughing, but he’s also still _really_ hard, and much as Bucky wants to keep kissing him, he’s never been one to waste a good bit of wood. So finally, grumbling with mock discontent, Bucky slithers down the length of Steve, settles between his legs, locks teeth on the waistband of his boxer briefs, and starts pulling them off.

“Jesus,” Steve hisses, voice still bubbly with mirth, but strained now, too. Bucky can’t quite get Steve’s underwear off with his teeth alone, so he finishes the job with his hands, but once they’re off he leans right back up and mouths at the base of Steve’s dick, making Steve whine.

Bucky licks a long stripe up Steve’s cock, from the base to the head, and then he slips the head in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, lapping up a bead of precome. It’s even better in his mouth than it was in his hand. Steve’s really losing it now, squirming and arching his back and trying to say Bucky’s name but only managing a few stray consonants. Bucky takes him deeper, as deep as he can, and sucks until even those meager enunciations are out of Steve’s reach.

 _“Hah... Ah..._ B—Bucky,” he manages, finally, and Bucky bristles. “Jesus _Christ—_ Buck—”

Bucky growls, and Steve goes nonverbal for another twenty seconds or so.

“—Bucky,” Steve pants again. “C’mere. Buck— _Bucky!”_

This last is uttered about two octaves above all the rest, and that’s because Bucky lets his teeth lightly scrape the length of Steve’s cock as he pulls off. Bucky grins, licks the tip once more (which makes Steve shiver), then crawls back up so he and Steve are face-to-face.

“Like that, do you?” Bucky hums against Steve’s lips. “You’ve got all sortsa dirty little kinks, don’t you?”

Steve kisses him hungrily, chases the taste of himself into Bucky’s mouth. Then he breaks off, struggling to remove Bucky’s underwear. Bucky leans in close so he can whisper in Steve’s ear.

“Bet you like it rough, too,” he says. “Bet you’d like to pound me into this mattress till I scream.”

 _“Jesus fuck.”_ And then Steve is actually, literally _ripping_ Bucky’s underwear off of him, throwing the tattered remains over the side of the bed as he flips a grinning Bucky onto his back and kisses him so hard he can’t breathe.

The breathlessness is also because of the laughter, though. Steve’s still kissing him, but Bucky’s laughing so hard his whole body’s shaking, and finally he has to wrench his mouth away from Steve’s and press his forehead to Steve’s temple and just let it out.

“Steve, you just—I can’t _believe_ you just _ripped off my underwear._ Jesus Christ. You’re like a walking, talking harlequin hero, aren’t you?”

“I’m not the one with the long flowing hair,” Steve mutters darkly.

“Oy! It’s short now, see? _Short.”_

“Yeah, but you’re still a drama queen.”

Bucky’s retort falls away easily in the face of another fierce kiss. Actually, everything about this is easy— _so goddamn easy_ —and Bucky thinks that’s something he should have realized. Things are always easy with Steve, so Bucky should have known that this, too, would be a simple matter of opening the door and letting Steve inside. He wants to kick himself for being so stupid.

He also wants to kick Steve for not _getting inside already._ Impatient now, Bucky wraps his metal hand around Steve’s dick, pumping it till Steve’s breath stutters. His flesh hand guides one of Steve’s around to his ass, pressing his fingers between the cheeks.

“Are you just gonna lie there and look pretty all night, or are you gonna fuck me?” Bucky demands with a guileless grin.

Steve just raises an eyebrow, doesn’t respond. Instead—with that wicked glint in his eye that makes Bucky’s stomach all wobbly—he lifts both Bucky’s hands away from his body by the wrists and guides them down to his sides, pinning them there as he gently coaxes the smile out of Bucky’s lips with his own. Then he trails downward, pressing his mouth to Bucky’s jaw, his throat, the dip in his collarbone. As Steve moves down Bucky’s body again—determined, it seems, to pave a long road across his skin, and to do it with painstaking, tantalizing precision—he doesn’t make a sound, but Bucky imagines that each kiss comes with the soft rumble of three heartbreaking words. And maybe in a way it does, Bucky dares briefly to think. Maybe Steve tucks that impossible thought into Bucky’s skin the same way Bucky does to Steve, pooling his affection into the palms of his hands and kneading it into Steve’s shoulders, trying to make it stick.

Bucky expects Steve to stop at his cock, but he doesn’t. Gazing up at Bucky again with that wickedly long-lashed, half-lidded look, he hooks Bucky’s knees over his own shoulders, propping him up as he pulls Bucky’s ass cheeks apart and goes in with his mouth. Bucky emits a wholly undignified noise at the shock of it, writhing so much against Steve’s lips—against Steve’s _tongue,_ Jesus motherfucking Christ—that Steve has to reach around and pin him down by the hips.

“Steve,” Bucky whines. “ _Stevie,_ you gorgeous fucking— _Christ._ ”

Steve’s doing his best to work Bucky open with his tongue, and good god, is it working. Tense against the intrusion at first, Bucky’s soon melting right into it. He sort of forgets where his own body ends and Steve’s begins for a while.

At least, until Steve pulls out again. Bucky whimpers at the loss, but then he opens his eyes—when had he closed them?—and sees Steve reaching for the discarded lube, squeezing a good portion onto two of his fingers.

Steve leans over Bucky again, supporting himself with his clean hand on the mattress as he presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Bucky’s lips.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” says Steve.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” is the only valid reply.

And then one of Steve’s fingertips grazes Bucky’s opening, teasing the slightly-loosened edges before pressing inside. Bucky moans, the sound fizzling in his throat as Steve works his finger in to the first knuckle, then the second, pulls out partway and then pushes in again, establishing a haphazard rhythm. It isn’t long before he’s got two fingers inside Bucky, and the long-neglected nerves inside him start flickering back to life. Now Bucky’s the one who’s making too much noise to kiss Steve properly, even though every goddamn particle of him wants to; all he can do is pant against Steve’s mouth as Steve murmurs words of encouragement and affection against his lips.

Steve needs a little more lube before he can get three fingers inside, and by that point Bucky’s begging for it.

“Steve... Steve, want you— _fuck_ —inside me. Want your cock inside me. Please— _Steve._ ”

“Fucking Christ,” curses Steve, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “James Buchanan Barnes, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“If you don’t get your fucking dick inside me _now,_ you’re damn right I will be.”

And so a laughing, breathless Steve pulls three slick fingers out of Bucky’s ass, reaching for the condom and rolling it onto himself clumsily, then grabbing the lube again and slathering his straining cock with it. Bucky watches him, his bones aching, his legs spread wide.

Steve lines himself up, then looks up at Bucky, meets his eye. With one hand clamped around Bucky’s hip, the other around his thigh, he presses inside.

Bucky _moans._ He feels so beautifully, sinfully full, and fuller every second as Steve’s thick cock moves deeper into him. Steve goes slow, but he’s got this _look_ on his face, and Bucky knows it’s taking everything he’s got to be gentle. He buries himself to the hilt in Bucky and then stops, breathing hard, sweat shining on his skin. Pulls out partway, thrusts in again, and makes this noise in the back of his throat that makes Bucky’s stomach do a backflip.

At which point Bucky decides _fuck gentle,_ and when Steve pulls back a second time, uses all the meager leverage he has to ram Steve’s cock in balls-deep again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve whines, his face falling to pieces.

“Yeah... that’s the _idea.”_

On this last word, Bucky wriggles away from Steve, removing himself from that stunning cock just long enough to unhook his knees from Steve’s shoulders and shove him onto his back. Bucky then climbs on top of a prone, discombobulated Steve and sinks straight back down on his dick.

 _“Fuck,_ yeah,” Bucky groans, the sound mingling with a strangled noise from Steve. As Bucky sets up a ruthless rhythm, Steve’s hands fly up to Bucky’s thighs, fingertips kneading them so hard Bucky knows they’ll leave bruises. At first, Steve arches and moans like he just doesn’t know what to do with himself, but then he sits up, adding his own momentum into the mix and grabbing ahold of Bucky’s rock-hard cock.

“Bucky, come for me,” he grits out, working Bucky’s cock in time with his own thrusts. “You’re so beautiful, please, I wanna see you come.”

“Jesus Christ...” Bucky’s having a hard time catching his breath between the feeling of Steve’s hand on him and his dick inside. He feels his own sweat-slick skin slipping against Steve’s, hears their thighs slapping together on each thrust, the rhythm getting more frantic by the second.

“Bucky,” Steve huffs against his throat, the word thick with emotion. Then he changes the angle of his hips, and Bucky’s vision goes white.

He loses it, working himself thoughtlessly on Steve’s cock. He thinks he’s saying something—he thinks it’s Steve’s name—as the muscles in his lower belly get tighter and tighter.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” murmurs Steve, and that’s it—Bucky’s crying out, going still, spilling white onto both his and Steve’s bellies as his muscles contract around Steve’s dick. He thinks this last is why, after a few more thrusts, Steve’s coming too, his hips stuttering and his voice breaking as he makes the most beautiful, reckless face Bucky’s ever seen.

Bucky’s absolutely boneless when he comes down. They’re both breathing hard.

Steve flips Bucky onto his back and pulls out of him tenderly. Divesting himself of the condom, he collapses none-too-gracefully on top of Bucky and kisses him, wet and sloppy and perfect. Bucky knows he’s got the _goofiest_ smile on his face right now, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to do anything about it. Anyway, Steve looks pretty goofy, too.

Just as Bucky’s becoming uncomfortably aware of the stickiness between their stomachs, Steve sits up, pressing one more kiss to Bucky’s lips before he gets off the bed and disappears. Bucky sort of dozes at that point, fading back into mostly-consciousness only when Steve (when did he get back?) wipes the come off his belly with a damp washcloth. Bucky hums his profound appreciation.

Steve’s back at Bucky’s side in no time, settling down naked and warm in the bed, washcloth mysteriously discarded. Bucky uses what little energy he has left to flop across Steve’s chest, pillowing his head on Steve’s shoulder and trapping him with a leg around his hips. Steve just chuckles—a sound that rumbles and ricochets in Bucky’s skull—and pulls the blankets up over them both, tucking Bucky into his arms.

The last thing Bucky remembers is the tickle of Steve’s breath on his skin.

 

* * *

 

The snow is still falling when Bucky opens his eyes.

It’s light out, the sky a soothing stretch of white, the city swirling and gray. Bucky is gloriously sore, and his whole body is warmed through, the way only booze or Christmas with his ma or a particular smile from Steve has ever been able to do.

Steve lies next to Bucky, sleeping soundly. The snow-laden light from the window sketches abstract lines across his face, which is more peaceful than Bucky ever remembers seeing it before. He’s still got one arm tucked under Bucky, although at some point during the night Bucky must’ve rolled over onto his back, leaving Steve’s other hand stranded between them and stretching his own metal one into the wide expanse of the bed on his other side.

Smirking faintly, Bucky rolls back over again, tucks himself into Steve’s side, and slides metal fingers across his bare belly. Steve’s breath hitches, his eyes fluttering open.

“Cold?” Bucky mumbles into the crook of Steve’s neck.

Steve sighs. “Yeah.” His fingers lock around Bucky’s metal wrist.

“Sorry.” Bucky folds the word into the pulsating skin at Steve’s throat, but he’s not sorry at all, and he proves it when he splays his whole palm across Steve’s stomach, making Steve shiver.

Silence settles over the room slowly, like a fine film of dust. Bucky traces the same circle into Steve’s stomach over and over again with his thumb, and it’s the only movement in the room aside from the gentle rise and fall of Steve’s chest. Bucky feels himself sinking into that rhythm, and sinking, too, into a realm somehow perpendicular to both sleep and waking: he’s still conscious, but he exists in his bones rather than his brain, and the anxious buzzing he’s become far too familiar with sublimes until it’s almost completely evaporated.

 _Thank god,_ he marvels to himself, curling into Steve’s body heat. _Thank god._

Bucky almost doesn’t notice himself smiling, it happens so gradually. After a while, though, he starts chuckling.

Steve must know what he’s thinking about, because he groans. “Bucky.”

Shaking silently with mirth, Bucky insists, “You _ripped them off me,_ Steve.”

Bucky’s not looking, but he can _feel_ Steve rolling his eyes.

“You complaining?” he asks.

“Me? Oh, no. Not complaining. No.”

“Good.”

“...Although if this gets to be a habit, it’s gonna cost Stark a fortune to keep replacing my underwear. Probably make him suspicious.”

Steve thwaps him.

Quiet settles over them again. Steve lifts it after a few moments, murmuring, “I’ve never done that before.”

“What, ripped the pants off someone? I hope not.”

“No, you jerk.” Steve laughs, the sound slightly strained, and doesn’t continue.

A breath, and it clicks. Bucky boggles. “Wait. You mean you’ve never...?”

“...Yeah.”

“Not _once?”_

“Well, it’s not like I’ve been rolling in prospects.”

“That is a blatant lie, and you know it.”

“ _Bucky_.” Steve shifts uncomfortably beneath him. Reflexively, Bucky slides his hand to Steve’s waist, gripping it tight.

“I know,” he mumbles. “Same old tune, right? You were waiting for—”

“—the right partner. Yeah.”

Bucky gets a few butterflies at that. “I’m...” _Flattered. Honored. Speechless. So in love with you._ “...confused. I mean, you weren’t—it was— _Christ,_ Steve, that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Bucky feels the quick, warm pressure of Steve’s lips on the top of his head. He cards through the vivid memories he has of the night before, looks closely at Steve in all of them.

“You didn’t seem very nervous,” he observes.

“God,” Steve huffs, “I was. Of course I was. And I—well, I’d done my research. Books, internet, the most awkward conversation I have ever had with Bruce. But there’s a big difference between reading about it and _doing_ it, y’know? But then... I mean, it was _you._ You’re my best friend. I’ve known you my whole life, and all that time I’ve done everything I can to figure out how to make you happy. And it occurred to me that this... this was just another piece of that.” He shrugs, jostling Bucky’s head a little. “And then it was easy.”

Steve’s arm tightens around Bucky’s waist.

“I love you, you know,” he says, small, his breath whuffling in Bucky’s hair.

Bucky shuts his eyes against the tenderness of it.

Unable to look up, or to speak above a whisper, he asks the skin of Steve’s throat, “How long?”

Steve hums, considering. “Since the beginning, I think. But I didn’t really get it till the day you fell.”

With a shuddering breath, Bucky presses kisses to Steve’s throat, his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in Steve’s ear.

Steve’s hand winds around Bucky’s forearm. “What for, Buck?”

Bucky struggles with the words. There’s no way to describe this feeling.

“I’m sorry for... for the way you felt, and... and the way _I_ felt, but I never... and then I went and... and then they... and then you were... and _now_...”

“Shhh... Bucky.” Steve’s hand runs once up Bucky’s arm, then back down, firm and slow.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I should’ve—I should’ve stayed, I should’ve found a way to stay with you, or else—” _Or else I should’ve died when I had the chance._

“ _Bucky_.” And then Steve’s wriggling down in Bucky’s grip, twisting until he can cup Bucky’s face in both his palms and look straight through him. He kisses Bucky, firm and fraught.

There are tears in Bucky’s eyes by the time they part.

“I don’t deserve you,” he tells Steve, shattered.

“God—Bucky, you _do_.” Steve kisses Bucky again. “I know you’re scared. I can’t really say I understand it, but I know you are. And I wish I could convince you you don’t have to be. I’d like to try, if you’ll let me.”

He presses his forehead to Bucky’s, runs a hand down his chest. Stops above his beating heart.

“But for now, I’ll just say this: when I first met Sam, he asked me what makes me happy. I didn’t have an answer for him. I felt so untethered, so desperately alone. Time had stopped moving for me—it had moved _away_ from me, left me behind.

“And then you were there, and it was like... it was like I’d been buried for seventy years at the bottom of the ocean, and that day I could finally see the sun. Now, with you here, I’m breathing air again.”

Steve’s other hand reaches down to grasp Bucky’s flesh one, pulls it up to rest on his own chest. Steve’s heart beats strong and steady beneath Bucky’s fingers.

“Sam’s got his answer now.” Steve smiles. “It’s you.”

With tears streaking his face, Bucky kisses Steve.

“I love you,” he whispers, wretched, and kisses him again. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“You do?” Steve asks, smiling this watery smile.

“I do. God help me, I do.”

They spend the better part of the morning in bed, learning each other in all the ways they’d never been brave enough to before now. It ends abruptly when a hapless Clint bursts into the room, aiming to invite Steve up to Tony’s floor for “family brunch” and instead getting an eyeful of two naked and still vaguely sweaty supersoldiers. He shrieks and runs out of the room with his hands over his eyes; the distinctive sound of him crashing into a wall bounces back to a howling Steve and Bucky’s ears.

“He should be grateful we were in-between rounds,” Bucky notes thoughtfully when they’ve caught their breath, and it sets Steve off again.

They do eventually make it up to Tony’s floor—the penthouse, of course—though Steve has to lock Bucky out of his room just to get dressed. They step out of the elevator into a scene similar to the night Steve got back from his meeting with Fury, except the beers have been replaced with mimosas, and also everyone is staring at them.

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Bucky mutters through the side of his mouth.

“Good,” Steve replies, and slips his hand into Bucky’s.

They join the party. Steve valiantly continues to hold Bucky’s hand through the procurement and consumption of sustenance, but then Jane manages to wrangle him away in the name of science—Thor’s over in the corner daring people to lift his hammer, and she’s still trying to cajole Steve into giving it a go as she tugs him out of Bucky’s grasp. Bucky laughs at the petrified look on his face as he’s hauled away.

Bucky, finding himself alone, wanders over to where Clint stands by himself next to the kitchen door. He keeps peeking around the doorjamb, looking anxious; Bucky’s guess is that he’s waiting for another pot of coffee to finish brewing.

Bucky stands next to Clint.

“Sorry for this morning,” he says, even though he isn’t.

“No, you’re not, you sadistic fuck,” Clint retorts, then blanches at his own poor choice of words. Bucky laughs.

Across the room, Tony’s about to take his turn with the hammer.

“JARVIS,” he calls. “How about some music to set the mood?”

“Certainly, sir.” Some sort of noisy classic rock song blasts from the corners of the room.

Bucky goes still.

**Jarvis, please, they’re—fuck. Fuck! I’m sorry... I’m so sorry.**

“I’ve been thinking about leaving,” Bucky blurts.

Clint glances at him. He doesn’t look shocked, just pensive. “Why?”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Bucky murmurs. “I’m putting all of you in danger, staying here. I thought I’d put my skills to good use, go undercover with Fury and start takin’ out HYDRA cells.”

Clint purses his lips, doesn’t speak for a while. Finally, he says, “Bucky, that is possibly the most selfless thing I’ve ever heard—which is absurd, because I’ve been hanging around Captain America for years. But it’s also fuckin’ stupid.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Bucky huffs.

“Yeah, because it’s true, dummy. And listen, I get it—sometimes leaving feels like the best thing you can do for the people you care about. But take it from someone who knows: you’re gonna have an easier time protecting the ones you love if you stay.”

“I’m not the same person anymore,” says Bucky. “I’m...” _A monster._ He forces his white-knuckled fist to unwind. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt him.”

“No, you won’t.”

“How the fuck do you know?”

Clint just smiles this soft smile, his gaze drifting across the room to where Nat is busy laughing at Steve, Sam looking on with amusement.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told her when we first met,” says Clint, nodding toward Natasha. “You are only as dangerous as you want to be. Do you want to hurt us?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you want to hurt him?”

“I would die first.”

“Okay then. You don’t want to.” Clint shrugs. “So don’t.”

Bucky chuckles bitterly. “That easy, huh?”

Clint shakes his head. “Not easy. Easy would be walking out that door right now and never looking back. But if you mean it when you say you want to protect these people, then you’d better fucking stay put, because you’re a part of this team now, and I can guarantee you that you’ll break more than one heart if you go.”

Steve glances over, catches Bucky’s eye, and smiles this huge, bright smile. Nat smirks at him from Steve’s side. Sam beams. Bucky smiles weakly back at them.

“C’mon,” says Clint. “Look at that. You’ve got _Captain America_ in your damn pocket. Among other places.” He shudders. “Do you know how many people would sell their firstborn to be you right now?”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“To be honest, I’m a little jealous myself.” Bucky looks up sharply, but Clint just leers at him and waggles his eyebrows. It surprises a laugh out of Bucky, and the tension eases from his shoulders.

He falls quiet then. His gaze falls to the floor.

“He trusts me so much,” Bucky murmurs. “So much more than I trust myself. And I’m just so afraid I’ll hurt him.”

“Do you trust him, though?”

Bucky closes his eyes. “Of course I do. Of course.”

“Then maybe you should do that. Trust him, I mean. Trust that he knows what he’s doing, that he knows you, and he knows what he’s getting into. I know it’s hard, because you’ve spent your whole life keeping him safe—but of all the things you’ve been protecting him from, I really don’t think he wants to be protected from you.”

Bucky just stares at Steve, still sort of waffling, even though he doesn’t think he could leave now if he tried.

“Take a picture,” Clint quips. “It’ll last longer.”

“Gee, how original.” Bucky feels his face getting a little pink.

Tony catches the tail end of this exchange on his way into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Barton, he’s lasted pretty long already,” he interjects. “Digital photography or Capsicle—which is more likely to survive Armageddon? I guess it would depend on the specific nature of the end of the world...”

“Hey. _Hey._ You better not drink that coffee, Tin-Man!”

“Not tin, my friend. Gold-titanium alloy.”

“Freeze! I said _freeze!”_

Bucky’s already stopped listening. He’s crossing the room, a fact of which Steve becomes aware just as Bucky enters his space. That big, dorky smile spreads across Steve’s lips as Bucky throws an arm around his neck and yanks him sideways, planting a big smacker on his temple. Steve laughs, regaining his balance by slipping an arm around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky doesn’t quite move away. He starts to, but then his eyes catch on Steve’s, and they’re gleaming bluer and brighter than Bucky’s ever seen them before. So he moves in and kisses Steve again, on the lips this time, the touch like a confession.

Sam wolf-whistles. Natasha smacks him.

Steve leans out of the kiss, dazed. “What was that for?” he asks, voice low, eyes only for Bucky.

Bucky hums, considering. Stroking Steve’s cheek with his thumb, he answers, “For bringing me home.”

Steve’s smile singlehandedly ushers in the spring.


End file.
